Phoenix
by MK3A2
Summary: Stannis Baratheon, the immovable object, meets an unstoppable force who rescues him from himself.
1. Prologue

The fires on the beach and in the bay burned brighter than the sun, brighter even than any sacrifice consumed by the Lord of Light. Chaos raged as horns blew, announcing the arrival of the Lannister and Tyrell reinforcements, fresh on rested mounts bearing righteous defenders. His tired men wavered and fell back from the battlements as the tide of battle turned, their priority now self-preservation instead of victory. Scores fled back into the waves from which they had just staggered, desperate to escape before they could be cut down by arrow or blade.

"Stand and fight!" the king howled, but his men had none of their lord's single-minded determination. They grasped him firmly by the arms and dragged him off, closing their ears to his curses and demands. He wished for a moment that he had not chosen such a dutiful Kingsguard—if they cared less for him they might have simply let him continue the battle until he won or was killed.

Instead he fought his own loyal men even as they pushed him into a waiting rowboat and held him down. Two fell to arrows as they cast off from the shore, leaving the hopeless melee behind. The screams of dying men faded as his guard rowed as fast as their tired arms would allow, heading away from King's Landing and toward any ships that survived the initial terrible blast of wildfire.

They passed charred, floating bodies and flailing men who spit water and cried out for help. Some clung to pieces of wood while some who fled the massacre on the beach simply sank under the weight of their own armor. A few grasped the edge of the rowboat with desperate hands, only to be pushed off and away when their eagerness for rescue threatened to tip the boat. He watched it all with dull eyes, his sword held limply between his legs.

Out of the smoke and mist a ship emerged, its hull sporting blackened streaks and deep scars where it must have struck burning debris. Reeling, nearly sick from excitement and rage, he could scarcely comprehend the shouts from his men and the responses from above. Someone pushed him somewhat rudely towards the side of the boat as they drew alongside the ship—he barely registered the offense as a thick rope ladder came tumbling down to strike the rowboat with a soggy thud.

He climbed the ladder because there was nowhere else to go. As he reached the top, his feet missed the salt-soaked rungs—strong hands gripped him by his cloak, but the fabric tore. For a gut-wrenching moment he dropped, only to have his descent halted by a firm grip on his mail shirt. Someone shouted in a strange language; more hands emerged to haul him over the railing and dump him unceremoniously onto the deck. He slipped as he tried to stand, his legs no longer used to the pitch of the sea. It took a moment for his boots to find purchase in the slime made up of blood and ash and saltwater, and a moment more for the ghosts of the fires on the beach to fade from his vision.

He blinked in surprise as someone thrust a bulging goatskin bag into his hands. The barbarian pirate who had prevented him from falling into the cold sea now stood before him, tiny and dirty and nearly invisible in the foggy darkness—he could hardly tell where the war paint ended and the soot from the flames began. In the flickering light, he spotted two twinkling gold earrings shaped like birds in flight in each of the man's ears, a crass, extravagant indulgence directly at odds with the violence and gore that surrounded them. The pirate studied him critically for a half a heartbeat before disappearing into the crowd who scrambled to pull the last of the half-drowned men from the water.

Suddenly exhausted, the king sagged against the railing of the ship. The goatskin bag slipped from his fingers and sloshed against the deck. His men crowded him now, their faces grim; he turned away from them and their concern, and cast his gaze back toward the beach of Blackwater Bay, where the ruins of his ambition lay smoldering and trampled under the hooves of traitorous Houses.

Failure.

The small ship lurched as it swung east toward the dawn and sped towards the mouth of the bay on singed crimson sails.


	2. Chapter One

Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, brooded alone atop the Stone Drum in the Chamber of the Painted Table.

It had been one week and three days since his humiliating defeat at the Battle of Blackwater Bay, and one week since his return to Dragonstone aboard the pirate ship that bore him and some of his remaining men home. The ship had limped into the harbor under dangerously creaking masts and constant bailing by the crew, who labored every hour since King's Landing to keep them just barely afloat and who shouted at his men in an unintelligible language every time they got in the way.

Stannis had spent most of the agonizingly slow voyage lost in a fog of his own anger and self-pity, a state that still haunted him. He did not remember disembarking or entering the castle, and could not recall whether he had even seen his wife or daughter before shuttering himself in this very room.

He could not stop himself from seeing the burning men and ships, the victory so close at hand, the ultimate disaster. He felt betrayed by his men and his own ill fate. Davos Seaworth was missing and possibly dead—if he still lived by this time, he surely had chosen to abandon his king. What sane man would not? Stannis had placed Davos in command of the fleet, and the blame for any failure fell just as squarely onto Davos's shoulders as it did for his king.

Thoughts swirled in his mind, keeping him awake and alone save for the Red Priestess, who whispered platitudes in his ear and chided him for leaving her behind. What if he had brought her—would he have been victorious? What if he had more ships, more men? What if he hadn't retreated? _What if, what if, what if…_

He had only ever sought to do his duty. His men no doubt believed he _wanted_ to be king, and some perhaps even thought he _deserved_ it. He hated that idea—he neither wanted nor deserved the fate that had been thrust upon his shoulders, but taking the throne was his responsibility, pure and simple. There could be no excuses for shirking that role, the burden of kingship. His own self-worth did not factor into the equation: he _had_ to fight for the throne that belonged rightly to him, whether he wanted to or not.

That his men died so pointlessly for the sake of his duty and not his ego was cold solace indeed.

A knock at the chamber doors announced one of his guards, whose nervous shuffle only made Stannis' mood worse.

"I am not to be disturbed," Stannis snarled, and the guard ducked his head in uneasy acknowledgment.

"Yes, Your Grace. But we may have caught a spy on the island. A foreign woman who has been asking too many questions of the bannermen and writing their responses down." That caught the king's attention. His enemies would certainly not shy from employing spies to assess his strength after his failure at King's Landing.

"Bring her to me." The guard scuttled out of the room as quickly as his legs could carry him, afraid of his king's wrath.

The doors opened to admit a small, slender woman dressed outlandishly in men's clothing, escorted by two of his bannermen. Her narrow, dark eyes swept curiously to take in the entire room, lingering momentarily on the fearsome dragon's head carved out of the wall, before finally settling on him.

He stood at the head of the Painted Table as she approached, gliding smoothly across the rough stone floor as if her feet floated on air. The woman paused several arms' lengths away at the direction of his guards and bowed low, her hands clasped together in front and her eyes on the floor.

Silence.

"Whom do you serve?" He had no patience for niceties, and the words echoed harshly.

As he spoke, the woman straightened from her bow with a perfectly blank expression, as if her face was carved from marble. She seemed to focus on a spot just below his head, refusing to look at him directly. A shine at her ears drew Stannis' gaze to the pair of earrings she wore—two golden birds in flight.

"You're that pirate," he said before she could open her mouth, unable to keep the incredulity from his tone. "The one from that ridiculously named ship. The one that's been slowly sinking at my docks for the last week."

" _Three Hump Dog_ , yes, Your Eminence. Only, I am afraid there has been some mistake. I am no pirate." She spoke carefully, calmly, though her accent was harsh.

Stannis studied her more closely now, noting the small abrasions and bruises that carefully applied face paints had failed to completely hide. She was pretty enough in an exotic way, with a flat oval face and high cheekbones, and despite a small button nose that had clearly been broken and reshaped several times. He could not tell her age; only that she had passed girlhood some time before but had not yet entered her silver years. The more he stared, the more he was reminded of the ugly scenes of their recent battle—it was not difficult to imagine her as she had been during their first encounter at King's Landing, covered in grime and filth.

"You keep company with pirates. Does that not make you a pirate? Or are you a spy for the Lannisters? The Starks?" Neither of the names seemed to cause a reaction in the woman. She continued to watch him impassively.

"I am a Master of Comparative Laws." From the thick sash wound around her waist, she produced a palm-sized medallion made of pale green stone, adorned with a green tassel. The knight to her left took it carefully and approached his king, who accepted the stone with a frown. "I am tasked by the rightful God-Emperor to study the governments and cultures at the farthest reaches of the known world."

Both sides of the flat circle were deeply carved in an indecipherable language and decorated with intricate carvings of birds with long tail feathers. He held it up for her to see, but her expression did not change.

"This means nothing to me." At this, the woman blinked in surprise. She seemed suddenly embarrassed, but her expression quickly disappeared. She smiled politely.

"Ah, they are my credentials. I am the Forty-seventh Master of Laws in the Court of the Seventeenth Azure Emperor, Bu Gai, God-Emperor of the Golden Empire and Lord of Yin-"

He waved a hand to silence her, and she stopped speaking as quickly as if he had sliced her words out of the air. She bowed low again.

"Where are you from?"

"From Yi Ti, Your Eminence." His cheek twitched in annoyance.

"A king is addressed as 'Your Grace,'" he said tightly. She bowed a third time.

"So sorry, my mistake, Your Grace."

He grated his teeth, impatience building. Her exaggerated deference was grating, and she had not answered his question.

"I'll say again: whom do you serve?" He passed the stone back to the guard, who kept it rather than return it to the woman. They had no doubt searched her for weapons before allowing her into the room, but a solid projectile that size would still hurt if it collided with his unprotected skull.

"I serve the God-Emperor." The reply sounded too quick, too mechanical. Stannis scoffed.

"How would a… scholar in the service of this so-called god-emperor end up aboard a pirate ship? It seems just as likely you sought service to gain access to my household as a way to spy for the false kings who defy me."

The woman seemed unperturbed by his accusations or by the intensity of his glower. "I contracted with _Three Hump Dog_ at her last port of call in Volantis. My destination was King's Landing. The last news of Westeros I received while in Volantis was that you sailed against Joffrey Baratheon at King's Landing, and that there was to be a great impending battle in… what you call the Crownlands, yes? This was the quickest way to witness the event." She spoke dismissively, as if the explanation was of no importance. Her expression shifted to something sharper, and he was reminded of a hunting dog, pointing at prey. "The odds were eight to one… favoring your fleet."

Stannis stared at her, lost for words. He had lost a battle in which _pirates_ had placed bets that he would win, a full _eight_ to one? His shame deepened.

"The odds were that good, hm?" he finally managed, irrational laughter threatening to bubble out of his chest. He squashed it, clearing his throat. His bannermen shifted uneasily, sending nervous glances at each other. Annoyed, he gritted his teeth in a scowl—he could only imagine a rumor now spreading that his own poor leadership and misplaced faith in the Red Woman caused an assured win to slip from their grasp. Mentally he cursed this foreign woman for causing yet another morale problem between his men, who largely followed the Seven, and the converts who looked to his wife as a symbol of their devotion to their new religion.

Somehow sensing that she had somehow caused the abrupt tension in the room, the woman bowed again in an apologetic obeisance.

"Stop that," he snapped. Her eyes flew open wide and she looked shocked, finally dropping the neutral mask as her eyes flicked upwards to meet his gaze directly. She started to bow again as if on reflex, but stopped herself and instead bit down on her lips. Stannis was somewhat amused to see her suddenly so uncomfortable, shifting slightly from foot to foot like a bird that desperately wanted to fly away. Clearly repeated bowing was an automatic response wherever she came from. He let her stew in her distress for a moment, feeling some low sense of satisfaction in watching her growing uncertainty, as if it were petty revenge for unbalancing him moments ago.

"What do you want?" he asked finally. She stopped fidgeting.

"I came to chronicle the Seven Kingdoms and return home with as much knowledge as possible of your people," she said.

He had an inkling that this was a practiced response, but he had no other evidence to prove her wrong. Perhaps it was merely a problem of translation. As far as what part of the statement might be untrue, he could only guess—perhaps she had no intention of returning home, or of learning anything. The story sounded as if she came to spy for someone, even if it was not for the Lannisters or the Starks, or the two loathsome, self-proclaimed spymasters in King's Landing. If she were a spy for them, she was a poor one—too obvious, too different. He knew logically that there were indeed many spies in his household, but they were like shadows… or like spiders. Besides, what purpose would a spy for Yi Ti serve? Sending an agent so far to report on such distant lands made no sense to Stannis—certainly the Empire didn't care what political squabbles Westeros had, just as no one here cared who ruled the Empire. There was no trade between the two, no contact beyond half-truths and myths passed from one drunken sailor to the next.

Half-truths, just like this woman spun.

He looked at her again, and one side of his mouth curled up in amusement at the sheer coincidence. Another mysterious foreigner from some distant eastern land, washed up on _his_ doorstep of all places. At least this one wasn't preaching anything. The last woman from Essos who had appeared converted half his household, sent his wife into a religious frenzy, and somehow persuaded him to pull a glowing sword out of a bonfire in front of a gaggle of onlookers. Left unguarded, what kind of mischief would this one get into?

He suddenly felt tired, as if the weight of the world had come settling back down on his shoulders. His temples ached. Stannis turned from his small audience to squint down at the map of Westeros carved into the great table before him. He did not want to deal with foreign empires or curious scholars or strange women—certainly not all three embodied at the same time in front of him. He wanted to be alone.

"Take her to the dungeon."


	3. Chapter Two

The dungeon was cold and damp and made of unyielding stone, just like the rest of this miserable island. Lo Jun watched the slow, steady drip of water from the bars of her cell while mentally reciting the Sixty-Four Canons of the Virtuous Way. She had long since abandoned serious study of the meditative arts, but after roughly three days she ran out of current YiTish political intrigue to recount for the silent walls.

To say she was embarrassed for ending up imprisoned in a dungeon would be putting it mildly. Since disembarking on Dragonstone after the mad frenzy that was her first taste of actual battle at Blackwater Bay, Lo Jun had tried to keep as low a profile as possible while figuring a way off the island. It was too crowded here, the land too small—she stuck out enough amongst these pale, tall people as it was. Considering she had fled Yi Ti hoping to _hide_ , she needed to find a place with a larger population, somewhere she could blend in more easily. Preferably someplace _warm._

She hadn't quite anticipated the people of this place to be so damn suspicious of outsiders. Her questions had been innocent enough—how often did ships land here, what cargo did they carry, what were their routes and where did they make port—but apparently she had pressed her luck too far. Lo Jun had to admit she was almost completely lost—nothing here was in any way familiar to her, and the overwhelming sense of _newness_ had made her jumpy and impatient. She had no one but herself to blame for her current predicament. Lo Jun smiled absently, rubbing her hands together—it was as if the ghost of her old governess was chastising her from beyond the grave for letting emotion sway her to act in haste.

Of course, had a Westerosi man—or woman—done the same in Yin or Trader Town, their treatment would have been… similar. It would have likely involved more heated needles placed under fingernails. The God-Emperor's agents were countless and invisible—no matter how large the city, Lo Jun knew it would not take long for a suspect outsider to be snatched up and hauled before the inquisitors. All things considered, she supposed she couldn't exactly complain about being so casually forgotten, abandoned to her own devices in her cell.

She had already tried picking the lock that kept her from freedom. A number of pins she had secreted in her hair lay in a corner of her cell, warped and useless. They were too thin, too flimsy for the heavy iron that secured her door. She had grown more and more frustrated with each twisted pin, and had finally banged the lock against the bars in anger. That display only brought the guard bumbling in to yell at his sole prisoner, and she did not repeat the experiment. It would be pointless to waste the few hairpins she still had.

Lo Jun's thoughts kept slipping from her internal chant to ponder her brief—and uncomfortable—encounter with her first king, Stannis Baratheon. From the way he had been described by the pirates, she had expected him to be utterly merciless and order her burned at the stake as a sacrifice to his fire god. She was surprised when he merely tossed her in the dungeon. Rather than the cold, cruel automaton she had predicted, Stannis had seemed so tired, as if he bore the responsibility of twenty kings on his shoulders. She almost pitied him. She knew his type—the kind who wrapped themselves in solitude, shutting out the world in an attempt to fulfill their self-perceived destiny _alone_ , without burdening anyone else.

That was stupid. All men needed help in life. Even the tallest mountain would crumble without the earth to support it.

What _was_ true from the rumors was Stannis' apparent utter lack of decorum. Lo Jun had bowed even lower than she would normally have done for a foreign king, in hopes of showing more respect, but he had completely dismissed her efforts. He even had the audacity to tell her to _stop_ bowing, as if the movement somehow offended him. _What a rude man_ , she grumbled to herself, bristling at the memory.

A noise at the end of the hall drew her attention, and her meditation came to a fumbling halt. Judging by the lack of attentive guards on patrol, night had fallen hours before, but the passage of time meant almost nothing here. She had tried to judge the days by the cycle of hunger, but that soon proved to be a useless exercise given the meager rations she was provided.

The sounds drew closer. Curious, Lo Jun peered around the crossed bars of her cell. Whatever it was, it was not a rat—their hard nails made scrabbling sounds against the floor, and this sounded more like… silk whispering on stone. A luxurious sound, one she had not heard for a long while. Lo Jun squinted in frustration at the shadows—she could see nothing. The torches hanging from the dungeon walls were low, spitting thick smoke and throwing weak light against the walls. Irritated, she waved a hand in front of her face as if it would help disperse the gloom.

There was movement in the shadows across the hall. Lo Jun froze. Something human-shaped watched her there. Suddenly and in a burst of irrational fear, all of the tales of demons and ghouls from Lo Jun's childhood swarmed in her mind—they had tracked her here, across the seas and deserts and mountains and she would have her soul eaten sucked out from her like smoke from a pipe—

The figure across the hall stepped nervously into the light, and Lo Jun's terror dissolved into utter confusion. No one said demons came in child form to steal souls. Perhaps she was going mad. The inquisitors she knew had once told her men often started to see things that weren't actually there after a period of isolation.

The girl of about twelve years of age stood well out of arm's reach, dressed in an expensive nightgown and slippers, clutching an enormous tome to her chest. Her blue eyes were huge in her pale face, and Lo Jun's eyes lingered only for a brief moment on the dark patchwork of scales that covered the left half of the girl's features.

Neither spoke. What did one say to a figment of the imagination?

The girl broke the silence first. "Are you the pirate?" she said, her voice like a mouse's squeak. Lo Jun sighed and looked morosely at her dirty hands. After so long without a bath, she supposed she was now as grubby as a pirate.

"I am…" she hesitated, wondering how accurate a description she should provide. It did not seem that the Lord of Dragonstone understood the title she had offered him, and if a grown adult had no comprehension, Lo Jun doubted this girl would appreciate it. She chose as broad a job description as she could manage without straining logic. "A historian."

The girl's face lit up. Timidly, the waif inched closer to her, moving carefully as she shuffled her feet.

"Are you really from Yi Ti?"

Lo Jun nodded slowly. "I am."

"What's your name?"

"I am called Lo Jun." The girl looked confused. "Lo is my family name—" she would spare the girl the details of her family's colorful history "—and Jun is my… how would you say it? Given name?"

"It's a nice name," the girl said shyly. Lo Jun softened. The name probably sounded as strange to the girl as her own name would seem to Lo Jun, but the compliment was kind. "I'm…" the girl paused for a moment. "I'm Shireen."

"It is an honor to meet you, Lady Shireen." Lo Jun bowed from where she sat on her heels, dipping her head and bending slightly at the waist. Shireen seemed bewildered. Lo Jun smiled slightly. Clearly bowing was something these people did not expect from her. "My people bow when greeting others," she explained.

"Oh." The girl laid her book gently down on the floor and curtseyed. She wobbled a bit before catching herself, as if the motion was not one she practiced too often. When she straightened, she inched a little closer, awkwardly twisting her fingers. "Are there many women who are traveling historians from your country?"

Lo Jun chuckled. "No," she said. "Not many at all. The idea of women traveling to… foreign lands alone is usually too scandalous to contemplate." She had almost said _barbarian lands_ , but caught herself at the last moment. "I am," she hesitated, "an exception."

The girl looked fascinated. "How did you get to be a… Master of…"

"Comparative Laws," Lo Jun supplied helpfully. She shrugged. "I studied at one of the God-Emperor's many academies." That was a rather large lie, but the girl would never find out, after all.

"What did you study?"

"I studied history, of course, and poetry, science, mathematics… I am afraid I was never much of a scientist."

"Will you teach me?"

Lo Jun was taken aback. "Teach you what?"

"Everything!" Shireen clapped a hand over her mouth and looked around in a panic, afraid that her eager voice would give her away. When nothing in the dungeons stirred, she leaned closer to Lo Jun conspiratorially. "Everything," she repeated in an animated whisper. Lo Jun gave her a bemused smile.

"Everything is a lot."

Shireen's eyes blazed with determination. "I _want_ to learn," the girl said stubbornly. "We don't get many visitors on Dragonstone, at least not ones who stay long enough to tell me anything interesting. I can read and write, and I know the histories of Aegon the Conqueror and the Seven Kingdoms better than anyone." As if to prove her point, she pushed the thick book she had arrived with out at Lo Jun. The script on the cover was faded, but even in the murky light Lo Jun could see it was titled _The Dance of Dragons_. Intrigued, the woman leaned her forearms against the cold bars of her cell and studied the girl.

The Seven Kingdoms were a very odd place indeed, where the only daughter of one of the claimants to the Iron Throne would sneak into the dungeons to ask a foreigner suspected of spying to teach her about… everything. Lo Jun had guessed who Shireen was at first glance—she knew of no others in this place who had survived greyscale, and judging by how far that tale had spread Shireen was not a very well kept secret by her father. That the princess had neglected to mention her title or her family name was interesting—Lo Jun was not entirely sure what to make of it. Nobility was usually proud of its rank, even in Yi Ti.

"Tell you what," she said thoughtfully, "How about a trade?" Shireen looked wary, and inwardly Lo Jun sighed. The idea of asking Shireen to bring her a set of jailers' keys had occurred to Lo Jun, but that clearly would require a bit more trust from the girl. Maybe later she would ask. For now, it would be enough to build a relationship between herself and the child. _Patience_ , she reminded herself. "I will tell you stories of my homeland and teach you what you wish to know, and you can tell me the history of your home."

Shireen's face split into an enormous grin, and she skipped just a little for joy. "Yes! I agree!" She kept her voice low, but her excitement was plain to see. "I will come every night," she promised.

Lo Jun laughed, covering her mouth with a hand. "Every night? Your family will notice you are tired. What will your father say?" She deliberately didn't mention Stannis' name. If the girl did not want to speak of it, she would honor that wish at the moment.

Shireen seemed to shrink a little, but quickly regained her composure. "He won't find out. He spends most of his time… away. And my mother won't have to know as long as I do my other lessons," she added defensively. From the hooded expression in Shireen's eyes, Lo Jun guessed the girl's late night expeditions around the castle were a closely guarded secret from her largely inattentive family. Lo Jun decided against asking the girl how she got into the dungeons in the first place. It was not her concern, especially not since the prison bars seemed too sturdy to escape without a key. _First things first: a key, or a miracle_.

"Well, then." Lo Jun shifted off her knees, crossing her legs to sit more comfortably. Shireen edged even closer, coming to stand nearly within arms' reach of Lo Jun's cell. Lo Jun noted with some grudging approval that the girl still stayed a safe distance away. She was smart, this wayward child. "You should come as often as you like, or are able." Shireen again blossomed into a smile.

"Can we start tonight?"

"I do not see any reason to not." Lo Jun settled back, resting her hands on her thighs. This would be interesting, at least. While escape—or release—might still be just a dream, Lo Jun enjoyed the thought of trading stories with this girl-child. Learning of the exploits of long-dead kings and queens was not exactly the type of knowledge she needed, but it wasn't as if Lo Jun had anything else to do. No doubt she could get the girl to tell her current news as well. Plus, a friendship with Stannis Baratheon's only living heir, illicit though it probably was, might come in handy eventually.

Lo Jun just hoped the girl would not grow bored of the exchange too quickly. Once the novelty of conversing with a captive, foreign audience wore off, she wondered if Shireen would stick to her promise of nightly visits.

"Where would you like to begin?" 

* * *

_A/N: Savannah's Angels: thanks for the review!_


	4. Chapter Three

Days later, Lo Jun lay flat on her stomach, her chin propped on her hands, staring intently out of the bars of her cell. Her dark eyes had not blinked for some time, and it did not seem she meant to do so anytime soon. If not for the slow, steady rise and fall of her rib cage, one might think she was dead.

In the hallway, about a foot away, a white rat stared back. He too had not moved recently, but his tiny pink nose continued to quest tentatively at the air, searching for food or danger. Lo Jun was proud of getting the rat to come so close. Since her imprisonment, he poked his head out occasionally to scurry around doing rat things, but it had taken quite a while to encourage him to get anywhere near her, especially since she was loath to share what little food she received with a rodent. She'd spied him sitting in the hallway out of the corner of her eye an hour earlier and had made slow, steady movements in his direction, finally ending up where they now waited in a trance, watching each other.

Her stomach growled. She wondered how raw rat would taste.

A commotion at the entrance to the dungeons startled her into blinking and sent the rat fleeing in panic. She cursed aloud, annoyed at the disappearance of her only possible source of fresh meat in this horrible place. Grudgingly, she sat up and massaged her lower back, sore from both sleeping and kneeling on the uneven ground during Shireen's nightly lessons.

To the girl's credit, she did not seem to be showing any signs of boredom. If anything, Shireen came armed with a barrage of questions each time that grew more and more complex until Lo Jun had to stop her and admit she knew no more of, say, the physiology of jungle basilisks. Entertainingly, the princess was most interested in learning of war, something Lo Jun thankfully knew plenty about. Her unorthodox pupil wanted to know of YiTish wars and conquests—particularly ones featuring women in charge, which pleased Lo Jun greatly—and of the theory and, of course, _application_ of strategy. They'd diagrammed out battles from Yi Ti, and in return, Shireen had begun recounting the formation of the Seven Kingdoms.

Lo Jun managed to sometimes get the girl to talk about current affairs, as well, but it seemed Shireen did not know much beyond who led which noble House and where they were located. Still, it was something. At the very least, their lessons were the only bright spot in an otherwise cold, miserable existence—while some guards were thankfully indifferent to Lo Jun's presence in the dungeons, a few delighted in harassing her, tossing seawater on her to keep her awake and threatening to burn her as a sacrifice to their god. She did not believe they would do so without permission from their king, but it was a mystery to her whether Stannis Baratheon would have a change of heart.

She remained still as two guards deposited a gray-bearded and weather-worn man in the cell across from hers. The iron cell door closed with a clang and one guard spat on the new prisoner through the bars before following his companion out of the dungeon. Lo Jun wrinkled her nose as they stomped past, and waved a hand in front of her face to disperse the sour stench of sweat that accompanied them. _Disgusting_ , she thought. _No one in this realm bothers to bathe. It's a miracle they haven't already all died of the pox._

When the men had gone, Lo Jun returned to watching the newcomer. She decided he was a fair sight more interesting than rats, but said nothing. It was some time before the man gathered himself up into a sitting position with his back against one of the cell walls, groaning mightily as he folded his legs. He took a deep breath and let it out, casting a mournful gaze around his new living arrangements. _He looks like a sad otter_ , she thought in amusement. He exuded a stern but harmless air.

His eyes settled on Lo Jun, and the man grunted in surprise.

"What's a YiTish woman doing in these cells?" He seemed to be speaking to himself.

"Meditating," she replied impulsively, her half-answer partly out of spite for his arrival ruining her chance at catching that damn rat. Still, it was true, more or less. The man stared at her, his brow furrowed in confusion. She instantly regretted being so cheeky. He seemed a very grandfatherly type.

For his part, the man was clearly startled to realize she understood him.

"You understand me? How did you get here?" He spoke slowly, as if to a child. She sighed, realizing he now thought she was probably a simpleton.

"I arrived with the ships that sailed against Blackwater Bay." The man looked incredulous.

"A pirate? I didn't know Salladhor Saan employed women on his ships." She made a pained face. Why did everyone think she was a pirate? She gave her now dirty clothes a glance—she didn't think she was _dressed_ like a brigand, at least.

"I am not a pirate, ser." She tried using one of the honorifics Shireen had taught her. Even if the man wasn't actually a knight, in her experience no one _dis_ liked being addressed by a respectable title. It was a safe bet. "I am a Master of Comparative Laws." Her explanation was met with a blank expression. Lo Jun frowned slightly—did these Seven Kingdoms men not make serious study of other governments? Perhaps they merely did not systematize their scholarly pursuits like back home. "I am a bureaucrat." Even less comprehension, if that was possible. How did they manage to run their kingdom without bureaucrats? She sighed and tried again, with the same answer she'd given Shireen days before. "A historian?"

He looked surprised. The man shifted closer to her, moving slowly across the stone floor. She guessed that he suffered from bad joints, in addition to whatever abuse the guards had subjected him to prior to depositing him in his cell. She wondered briefly whether mugwort herbs even grew in Westeros, or if their physicians knew of its use in easing joint pain.

"What is a historian doing in the dungeons of Dragonstone?"

She shrugged slightly. "Your king believes I am a spy."

"Are you?" She frowned at him sternly.

"So sorry, but I am a _historian_ ," she repeated, placing careful, firm emphasis on the last word. "What possible gain would the Empire have from spying on your faraway kings? And if I were a Westerosi spy, well, that would be a poor choice considering I am so…" she gestured to her face, " _Different_ from you, no?"

The man chuckled dryly. "You have a point there, mistress…" He trailed off, looking at her expectantly. She was a bit embarrassed to realize she had not introduced herself.

"I am Lo Jun," she supplied for him. He repeated her name and leaned his head back to rest against the wall, returning her studied gaze. It was her turn to fill the silence.

"Sorry but, may I ask, who are you?"

"I am Davos Seaworth." He sounded tired, almost defeated. "I was, until a few moments ago, the Hand of the One True King."

Lo Jun didn't bother to hide her shock. Davos Seaworth, imprisoned? Shireen mentioned this man nearly every night. She idolized the 'Onion Knight,' as she affectionately called him—he was apparently one of two people in the entire castle who bothered to treat her with any regular sort of affection. While she spoke highly but little of her father and not at all of her mother, Shireen would happily spend several hours recounting for Lo Jun the stories she had heard from Davos Seaworth and her (legitimate) tutor, Maester Pylos.

From what Shireen had said, Lo Jun was under the impression that Davos Seaworth was unquestionably Stannis Baratheon's most loyal subject. He must have been well valued to be Hand of the King—Shireen mentioned that position as equivalent to a vizier of sorts. Why would Stannis Baratheon imprison his Hand, and his closest ally?

Lost in her musings, she did not realize Davos had spoken to her. It took a moment for his echoing words to sink in, and for her to translate them into something intelligible.

"How did you learn our language?" Lo Jun raised her eyebrows as if the answer was obvious.

"From Westerosi pirates, of course. The Emperor repays them for their services by allowing them to keep their heads." It was an efficient method. The captured pirates were sometimes even released under letters of marque to harass ships from Asshai and beyond, but that was technically a state secret, albeit somewhat ill-kept. Davos grunted.

"Aye, that would be the way." He sighed. "Guess there's not much an old smuggler can teach his worldly prison mate." He was making a brave attempt at teasing her. She gave him a genuine smile. If he wanted to take his mind off his current predicament by trying to assist a damsel in distress, she would let him. She was, however, very interested in finding out why he was here, of all places—did his fall from grace signal a change in power? Was Stannis Baratheon no longer the king? What would become of her? She had to know.

"And, sorry, but why are you in the dungeons, Ser Davos?" He did not respond for several heartbeats, and Lo Jun worried that she had insulted him somehow. She kicked herself mentally—Stannis Baratheon had seemed annoyed with her efforts at excruciating politeness, but that of course did not mean all men in this realm did not appreciate such displays. Perhaps she should have bowed to Davos.

"I have been imprisoned on the accusations of the Red Priestess and Ser Axell Florent, the King's uncle-in-law, for plotting to murder the Priestess." Lo Jun's breath caught in her throat. The Red Priestess she had heard of aboard the pirate ship—the men had whispered that she was really Stannis' queen, that the two were secret lovers and that the king had sold his soul to a devil god. Was Stannis indeed as fanatic as his reputation suggested? He had not decided to burn Lo Jun when they first met, but would he now consider more human sacrifices as a message, or as a way to appease his priestess? She did not want to be on that list.

"Did you?" He looked at her sharply. "You asked if _I_ was really a spy," she reminded him half in jest, trying to keep her tone light. She did not want to alert him to her unease.

After a moment, he nodded curtly. "Yes." She didn't want to press her luck and ask _why_ , but it seemed something he wanted to vent. Had the poor man never had an open ear before? "I would do it again, to save this House and my King from the vile sorceress who plagues him." He spat the words, and Lo Jun was taken aback by the strength of his acrimony. This was not a man ashamed of what he had done. Davos looked at her closely.

"You're from Yi Ti." He shook a finger at her, moving closer to lean against the bars of his cell. She eyed him without responding, unsure where the sudden change in topic was going. "You must know of the tales told about the Shadow Lands. I've seen one, a shadow creature birthed on the shores of the Stormlands."

"A shadow creature, in the Seven Kingdoms?" She kept her voice neutral, but inside Lo Jun began to shake. A shadowbinder, here? All children in her family were raised to believe that the cursed shadowbinders of Asshai were the ones responsible for the plague of reavers that had scourged the Empire for centuries. They were the stuff of legends: cruel men and women who manipulated shadows and reality, sending forth their red-masked killers to slaughter and raid Lo Jun's people. It had been years since she lived in Jinqui, jumping at shadows in the nighttime, but that didn't stop the memories from rushing back.

"Yes, a fell beast. It… served its purpose and vanished." Davos was shaking his head as if to clear his mind of the things he had witnessed. Lo Jun had never seen a true shadow creature, but her mind had no trouble spontaneously conjuring up a motley of frightening images. Mentally, she stamped them down hard—she was too old to be scared of things that lurked in the night. "The Red Woman and her blood magic will bring Stannis to ruin—"

"Wait, please." Lo Jun frowned, holding up a hand. "The _shadowbinder_ is the Red Priestess? The priestess of… this Lord of Light?"

Davos nodded slowly. Lo Jun exhaled slowly. That made no sense. Why would a sorceress who controlled the _shadows_ bow to a god of _light_? The god could not have granted such contrary powers to one of his followers. Lo Jun paid roughly the same amount of attention to religion as she did to ants crossing her path, but this now confused her. Perhaps there was a strange logic to it—shadows depended on the light to exist—but the very idea seemed _wrong_ somehow. She slumped in her seat, worrying her bottom lip as her thoughts chasing themselves in mad circles.

"The Red Woman is dangerous, Lo Jun," Davos was saying. She didn't even notice herself nodding in agreement with him, barely hearing his words. "Pray that the Seven keep you from her gaze."

She would have to escape before the shadowbinder found her.

* * *

 _A/N: I've settled on (hopefully) weekly updates, unless I'm behind on a bench memo.  
_


	5. Chapter Four

The dark stairs to the tower where Shireen was kept were steep and seemingly endless. Each step Stannis took drained his energy somehow, the moaning wind that raced down the corridors sapping both strength and warmth from his bones. The curving walls felt oppressive, accusing, silently judging him for being a terrible man ashamed of his only child.

In his heart, he already regretted making the climb to see Shireen, and he hated himself for it. His wife had begged him to not, but his fatherly duty required him to at least pay the girl a visit. If he made the effort to see his wife, whose very presence set him on edge, then he surely must see his daughter, who was altogether too innocent for her mother's fanaticism or his own apparent coldness.

Visiting his daughter was a brief, sharp joy that inevitably left him saddened and angry. He loved Shireen, his only surviving child, with her girlish naiveté, surprising perceptiveness, and her effortless kindness. The burdens he suffered for the sake of duty often wore at him, but in her company he felt at ease, temporarily released from the pressure to fulfill the requirements of his station—she had no expectations of him beyond what he could provide. He always felt she saw and appreciated more than she let on, and he suspected her gentleness during his visits reflected not only love but an understanding of his disappointment with himself over how he had acted towards her. Perhaps she even forgave him his aloofness. At least, he would have liked to believe so.

But he knew keeping Shireen shuttered away from the world was a cruelty she did not deserve. It was not her fault she was disfigured, likely impossible to wed to any respectable Great House. It was not her fault he could not cope with the knowledge that not only was she female and thus his line currently ended with him, but that she would also most probably end up an unmarried spinster—the unfortunate family embarrassment hidden on this barren island.

If only he had never allowed that merchant to peddle his wares on Dragonstone after Shireen's birth. If only she had never caught greyscale.

If only he was not ashamed of her, and of himself.

To be fair, his unhappiness now was not simply because of the depressing reality presented by his daughter or even his own ineptitude as a father. Stannis' visit with his wife had filled him with overwhelming unease. He had hoped to confess his sins, his utter and complete dereliction of duty to Selyse—he wanted absolution, he wanted forgiveness, he wanted to repair his wrong.

He found instead that Selyse saw nothing to forgive, no transgression at all. _No act done in service of the Lord of Light can ever be a sin_. She'd smiled and touched him as reverently as if he were the Lord of Light Himself.

It troubled Stannis deeply to have heard his wife speak those words. He was afraid of meeting a jealous rage, of having his failures as a king and a husband thrown in his face. What he got was worse—the fanatic devotion of his converted wife, who saw nothing wrong with his cursed infidelity with the Red Priestess. He wanted a pardon for what he _knew_ was a failure to do his duty by Selyse, but she deprived him of even acknowledging his crime.

If what he did was no sin, why did he feel so wrong?

The thought occurred to him—and not for the first time—that the Red Woman's preaching was doing more harm than good to his House. Melisandre had left the night before, and their parting left a sour taste in his mouth. He felt abandoned and betrayed by her refusal to tell him where she was going or what she would be going—the patronizing look in her eyes when he told her he wanted her still cut him deeply, a raw wound to his already damaged pride. He knew, too, that he had only gone to confess his sins to his wife once the Red Woman spurned him.

The door to his daughter's rooms was closed, but he could hear her singing to herself like a lonely bird. He gave a perfunctory knock before pushing the door open. For a second, his heart leapt with paternal joy to see Shireen bounce up from where she was sitting, delight on her face. She rushed to him and flung her arms around his waist—he stiffened, profoundly uncomfortable, and waited impatiently until she released him.

"You've grown since I last saw you," he said lightly, trying to sound as if nothing was on his mind.

"Mother said you fought in a battle," she said, turning away to sit in some chairs near her cluttered desk. Full of books, he noticed, and papers. He sat as well.

"Did you win?" Her question was so innocent.

"No." The short answer itself did not seem to disappoint her, but he could see she knew he was upset.

"Did the Onion Knight come back with you?"

"He did. He fought bravely." He couldn't keep the wry tone from his voice, but it didn't seem his daughter noticed. She frowned at him out of concern for Davos.

"He hasn't come to visit me. He said he'd bring me back a present from the capitol." She sounded sad, which made him feel somewhat guilty. Stannis was not one for indulgences or spoiling his offspring, but little presents were all Shireen had of the outside world. Perhaps he should have promised her a trinket as well.

On the other hand, good thing he had not, since he was so resoundingly defeated.

He hesitated before answering his daughter. "He won't be visiting, child."

"Why not? He's my friend. Look." Shireen scrambled up to fetch something from her table, and pulled a roughly carved wooden ship out from its hiding place in a drawer before handing it to him. Stannis paused to absorb her statement and grimace at her persistence. He did not want to explain this. "He made this for me. But don't tell Mother I have it. It's a secret. Mother doesn't like the Onion Knight."

 _Your mother doesn't like a lot of things_ , he thought sourly. He turned the toy ship over in his hands—it was crude but obviously carved with care, especially by someone missing half a set of fingers. Davos had more dexterity than Stannis had thought.

It stung a little that the lowly knight apparently doted on Shireen than Stannis himself.

He passed the ship back to her and took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Ser Davos is a traitor. He's rotting in a dungeon cell for his crime." The confusion and sadness on Shireen's face again made Stannis uncomfortable. He tried not to think about whether his discomfort was because of having to break the bad news to his daughter, or whether it was because deep down, he knew he had allowed his uncle-in-law to imprison Davos out of indifference while wallowing in his own defeat. Davos no doubt hated the Red Woman, and Stannis did not for a minute think the knight would not jump at the chance to be rid of her influence, but… would it really have been so wrong?

No, Melisandre had shown him visions in the flames, of his duty fulfilled, of what it would cost him. He would be fool to cast her aside now, even in favor of his perhaps most loyal vassal. Men were plentiful; he had only ever encountered one true prophetess.

"Best forget him."

He stood purposefully, casting a stern gaze over her busy desk. He was about to leave when something caught his eye, half buried under a sheaf of parchment. When she realized what he was looking at, Shireen jumped for it, but he was faster.

Stannis pulled the page out, sending the others cascading to the floor. He studied it and its images carefully, impassively, his already bitter mood steadily blossoming into something more.

"What is this?" His voice was low, dangerous. Shireen seemed suddenly shy. She twisted her fingers nervously, and he could see her mind racing to construct some kind of plausible story.

"It's… for a story I was reading…" she stammered. "I was learning some arithmetic and wanted to know how… to… um…"

"Where did you learn this?" The drawing was elegant, foreign, but familiar. He could make out the throwing arm and counterweight and sling. A war machine, but a design he had never seen before.

"From… a friend." It was not a total lie, he could tell. From the way Shireen refused to meet his eyes, this 'friend' was one he would not approve of.

"Did Maester Pylos teach you this?" Shireen shook her head slowly. "Who taught you?" In the growing silence, Stannis had a horrible realization. The strange design could only have come from one place. He seized his daughter by the shoulder, giving her a slight shake. "Shireen, where did you learn this?" It was not actually a question.

"I went to see the historian," she whispered. Stannis' heart dropped into his stomach. "The one from Yi Ti."

"The one in the _dungeons_?" He thought he might faint. She winced as his grip tightened painfully on her shoulder. Shocked, he released her.

"She's been giving me lessons…"

"And you are unimpressed with the lessons the maesters have been giving you?" That she had lessons at all from the maesters was a concession Stannis had made a year ago, upon Shireen's pleading to be rescued from the monotony of lessons on sewing and etiquette. There was logic to her request—as his only child, she would have to know something of the world to rule should he die. It helped that he didn't quite trust the ability of the younger generation to be effective lords. He had instructed Pylos to keep Shireen occupied, but not delve too deeply into subjects unsuitable for a young lady. As far as he knew, they had complied with his orders and taught her nothing beyond stories of dead legends and some basic arithmetic for bookkeeping. He had hoped that, combined with access to whatever books she requested of the maesters, it would be enough to sate Shireen's endless quest for learning, but that hope now seemed foolish.

"The maesters are _boring_ ," she told him distastefully, as if he had cotton stuffed between his ears where his brains should be. "Mistress Lo likes to learn about the Seven Kingdoms. She helps me remember my lessons from Maester Pylos. After I read her some history, she teaches me things the maesters never even told me they could do." The last part sounded accusatory. Shireen fixed him with a stare that bordered on the insolent, and he couldn't help but see a reflection of Renly's independent spirit in her. It made him uncomfortable.

He looked down at the parchment with the equations scribbled and crossed out, and felt a sudden swell of anger. How _dare_ this foreigner speak uninvited to his daughter? And to teach her such inappropriate things—it was not Shireen's place to learn of war, and Stannis worked hard to keep his daughter insulated from the gritty realities of battle. She did not need to know how to build war machines: that would be her husband's job, when an appropriate one was found. He had begrudgingly allowed her to read so much about the Targaryen conquests in bloody, vivid detail, but this was too far.

Stannis strode purposefully past his daughter and towards the door, the parchment in hand.

"Father!" Shireen clung desperately to his arm, and he snarled at her. She hung on grimly, surprising him with her strength. "I asked her. You can't be angry with her! _I_ asked _her_ to teach me. She said she would teach me the arithmetic but the problems she gave me were so boring I said I wouldn't tell her any more about the Seven Kingdoms unless they were more interesting, like the things I read about when Visenya Targaryen fought for Aegon the Conqueror I promise it's not like I'm not going to _make_ one, Father, _please_ —" Stannis silenced her with a raised hand. Shireen stared up at him, her blue eyes huge and swimming with tears.

"This is unacceptable—"

"Father—"

"It is _dangerous_!" he shouted. She shrank away from him, stumbling slightly over the hem of her dress. "What if she took you hostage? What if she escaped and killed you?"

"She wouldn't," his daughter whispered. "She's my friend too." Tears spilled down her cheeks. Stannis looked down at her, anger and fear and sorrow and regret warring for primacy in his chest. Here were his daughter's only friends, by his own design: the traitor smuggler and the foreign spy. He suddenly couldn't breathe. He knelt, taking her pale, shaking hands in his.

"What if I lost you?" His voice cracked. Silence filled the room. Shireen then sniffled, pulling one of her hands out of his grip to wipe her cheek.

"Mistress Lo is my friend," she said again, trembling. "She's a scholar, Father. She _knows_ things. She's a historian and she wants to learn about the Seven Kingdoms—she knows that you are the true King, I've told her. She's here to learn, not spy or steal. We talk about history—she would never hurt me, or… or even you. She could write your history, just like they did for the old Targaryens."

He straightened, struggling to control his emotions. _This is your fault_ , whispered a small, dark corner of his mind. _You left her to her own devices, and look at the trouble it's caused_.

 _I am a terrible father_ , he thought.

"You will be confined to your rooms. No more late-night adventures, no more unescorted moments." Shireen seemed to crumble in front of his eyes. He felt her anguish cut into him even from behind as he marched out of her rooms.


	6. Chapter Five

When Lo Jun heard rapid footsteps approaching, she figured it must be the usual guard coming to deliver her daily ration of disappointing gruel. He had forgotten for two days before—or at least, she liked to believe he had forgotten rather than deliberately neglected her, but that might have been too kind. The guard was not an especially bright man, but he had a knack for casual cruelty and deliberately withholding food from his prisoners was not beyond the pale. Her stomach twisted in hunger and outrage at the thought of more poor slop, but there would be nothing else to eat if she did not take what was offered.

Whoever prepared it should be in the dungeons too, she thought sourly.

Of course, her mood was not surly just because she was admittedly a little spoiled and now miserable with sub-par prison meals. Shireen had not visited since Davos' arrival. The girl's absence was abrupt—Lo Jun had sensed no waning interest that might suggest she had moved on to new adventures. As unfair as it was to expect the girl every night, Lo Jun couldn't help but feel worried for Shireen's safety and perhaps just a little bit snubbed. She was growing rather fond of the waif and her ceaseless torrent of creative questions.

Lo Jun's conversations with Davos had filled the void that Shireen left, but in a different way. The man was so humble and unassuming that he made her feel as if she were supremely arrogant—he laughed at her when she complimented him on it. He told her of his days as a smuggler, and how he had slipped into Storm's End to rescue Stannis and his family from starvation during the siege there. She raised a doubtful eyebrow when he explained why his lord had taken part of the fingers on Davos' right hand—the man certainly tried his best to explain that Stannis was simply doing his duty to punish Davos' criminal lifestyle, but Lo Jun personally favored _bending_ the rules in the interest of actual justice.

Davos had also expounded on the circumstances of his arrival in the dungeons. Apparently, the shadowbinder's magic had somehow alerted her to his assassination plot after he arrived back at Dragonstone. Lo Jun had made a sound in commiseration here—one less shadowbinder in the world, the better. One of Stannis' fanatic in-laws, Axell Florent, had apparently taken it upon himself to bring Davos to justice—Stannis himself, it seemed, was indifferent to Davos' attempts at explanation or justification, and had simply and silently acquiesced to his in-law's decision to imprison Davos. Davos, as a follower of the traditional Faith of the Seven, found himself entirely at the mercy of the Florents, who had converted en masse to the new religion espoused by the Red Priestess, and who viewed Davos as a heretic whose death would best serve the designs of their vengeful, fiery god.

Davos was understandably most concerned that his king was so utterly deaf and apathetic to the ruin that Davos felt was entirely caused by the Red Priestess. Lo Jun couldn't help but sympathize.

Now, however, Davos could see who was coming before she could. He tensed and stood instantly, moving faster than she thought he was capable. She turned her head, confused at what would induce him to act so. It certainly could not be Shireen—there were too many guards lurking about for the girl to sneak past them at this time of day.

Instead of the guard Lo Jun expected, Stannis Baratheon came to stand before her cell. From the set of his shoulders and the clench of his jaw, she could see he was furious. Lo Jun wondered what she possibly could have done to anger him. A small part of her brain suggested it had something to do with Shireen, and she inwardly grimaced, bracing herself for a clash.

"What is this?" the king demanded, holding up a piece of parchment. Lo Jun squinted up at him through the gloom, pushing her black hair out of her eyes. A candle would have helped, she thought in irritation. The black ink on the page was familiar: it was the war machine she had drawn for Shireen the last night she visited to illustrate acceleration as a mathematical concept. The girl had gotten tired of imagining buckets on strings and demanded something more interesting—Lo Jun figured this would suffice, and it tied into their discussions of YiTish siege warfare under the gray emperors.

"Oh. Calculations for the rotational acceleration of a trebuchet. There is an arithmetic mistake in the third to last line." _And I can see your daughter understands the concepts better now_ , she thought to herself, but she also knew it would be extremely unwise to mention Shireen unbidden. As far as Lo Jun knew, the girl's nighttime visits were still technically forbidden. Perhaps Stannis did not know that Lo Jun had provided this diagram to his daughter, and had come only to interrogate her about her source of illicit ink and paper after finding the diagram discarded in some dusty hallway.

"Why are you teaching my daughter about siege engines?" _Well, shit._ So much for that hope. The king looked fairly apoplectic, but he held the parchment with care. Lo Jun shrugged boldly even as her heart leaped painfully into her throat. Shireen had been discovered, and it was probably because of the parchment. Lo Jun felt a wave of frustration wash over her—she hadn't wanted to create any paper trail of Shireen's lessons, but there was only so much she could do with sticks and dirt on the floor. It was unfair to blame Shireen for being careless, too—she was still just a girl.

Lo Jun was concerned for her unconventional pupil—had the girl been punished harshly for her nighttime escapades? Lo Jun didn't picture Stannis Baratheon as a particularly lenient or indulgent father, and she saw no reason to think the customs regarding punishment for children in the Seven Kingdoms differed much from back home. She still clearly remembered the beating she had received the first time she'd been caught sneaking out of her family's compound to spy on the boys' lessons. Since Shireen was the daughter of the king, would he still cane her? Lo Jun did not dare give the man the benefit of a doubt.

Common sense told her to smile and bow and ask forgiveness, perhaps pretend she did not speak the Common Tongue very well. But Lo Jun was exhausted by poor sleep and worse food, the cold and the wet and the acute sense of loneliness and homesickness and terror that plagued her whether awake or asleep. She was too tired to be careful. So instead, she said:

"It is more interesting than needlework."

They stared at each other through the bars of her cell. She did not look away. After a month of existing amidst rats and filth, being burned as a sacrifice for his righteous god would at least be a change of scenery. Even better, it would put this terrible, grime-filled misery to an end so that she could reincarnate back in a more civilized place. Maybe she would finally even be warm again.

That was a brave thought, and one in which Lo Jun could not entirely and honestly put her whole faith. Many scholars left the academies in Yi Ti hoping to become one of the legendary few who laid their lives down in pursuit of knowledge and the sciences. Lo Jun had always thought those people were terribly foolish—she didn't actually want to die, but it was too late to snatch her words back from the air.

It was impossible to tell what the king was thinking. She hoped her face did not betray her own fear.

An eternity passed in the few seconds of silence before Stannis spoke again.

"Open her door," he rasped. The guards hovering nearby rushed to obey. Lo Jun scrambled to her feet and waited as the lock turned, her clammy, sweaty hands clasped loosely in front of her. Her heart hammered wildly in her chest. She willed it to slow, but not even her mental admonitions could overpower the fear that thundered through her body. _I will not faint_ , she told herself firmly. _But I will make them_ drag _my whole weight to the stake_.

The door to her cell swung open.

"You will join my household," said the king. Lo Jun blinked rapidly, sure her ears had failed her. "Your main task will be to continue tutoring my daughter. When your duties with the Princess have finished each day, you will attend to me."

Her voice seemed to have fled, the traitor. Lo Jun drew a deep breath before forcing the air out through her frozen lungs. "Attend you, Your Grace?"

"I'm told a king must have a historian to write of his exploits," he said. From his sarcastic tone, Stannis seemed amused by the prospect of employing an official historian to chronicle his life, but his face betrayed no emotion beyond his cold, regal frown. "My daughter tells me you came to learn of the Seven Kingdoms and its rightful ruler. Now you have the perfect opportunity to do so."

Not trusting herself to speak, Lo Jun smiled weakly then pressed her hands together as she bowed low at the waist. When she straightened, Stannis Baratheon was gone.

As his purposeful footsteps faded, she risked a glance back at where Davos Seaworth gaped at her from his cell. He grasped the iron bars with his one good hand.

"You've seen the Princess?" he asked hoarsely. "How was she, was she well?" Lo Jun winced. She did not know how 'well' the girl would be now that she had been found out by her father.

"She came sometimes at night to visit," she told him, trying to minimize the situation. "We were… exchanging stories." Davos guffawed.

"Seems like you two were doing a fair bit more than that, I think. I do not recommend any more activities that might put her in harm's way." He fixed her with a disapproving eye, but a weak, hopeful smile soon tugged at the corners of his mouth. Lo Jun felt chastened, her cheeks flushing pink, but doubtless Davos knew of Shireen's tenacity. He did not seem terribly surprised to hear she had been wandering in places unbefitting a lady, particularly without supervision. "If… _when_ you see her, will you give her my regards? And… my apologies, for… being here." He gestured helplessly at his cell. "I promised I would bring her something back from King's Landing, but that obviously never happened."

"Of course, Ser Davos," she promised. It was the least she could do. The things Davos had spoken of—the Red Woman, the cult of the Lord of Light—had made her genuinely afraid of remaining on Dragonstone, but Lo Jun had no doubt that the conditions of her release would involve some close watching by the king's men. She had resolved very quickly to escape this cursed rock as soon as possible, but she was no fool—impatient, yes, but hardly one to make a run for the hills with Stannis Baratheon's wrath looming fresh over her head. She would behave for now, and slip away when the best opportunity presented itself.

"Thank you for keeping me company," she said sincerely. _Thank you for helping me maintain my sanity_ didn't have quite as good a ring to it.

She folded her hands in front of her and bowed low to Davos, the height one would normally reach when making a formal bow to the family patriarch. Stooping so far made her feel as if she were a child again—uncomfortable with the memories, she turned and began shuffling awkwardly away without looking him in the eye.

"Lo Jun," called Davos. She turned back again, hesitating. He seemed worried, his face pressed against the iron bars that kept him from his freedom. "Remember, I ended up here because I spoke my mind. Kings do not always appreciate being told they're wrong."

The guard at the end of the hallway barked an order at her impatiently. She smiled bravely at Davos and made for the dungeon doors where Stannis Baratheon had vanished, her steps quick but unsteady thanks to the disuse her legs had gone through.

She tried not to think about what waited on the other side.

* * *

 _A/N: extra chapter this week; happy Fiction February! And thanks to KioshiUshima for the kind review-hope I don't disappoint, haha!  
_


	7. Chapter Six

It was midday when Stannis realized just how much setting the YiTish woman free had upended his life.

He had first thought she would be housed with the maids and the other smallfolk who served his household, but she had firmly but politely informed his castellan that in order to adequately tutor the Princess Shireen, she required quiet, a table, and a chest to store papers and books. Axell Florent thought this was outrageous and duly informed Stannis, who decided (based on previous experience) that it might actually be better to sequester the foreigner away from the other staff. A small room was cleaned out near Shireen's tower, but the maids had then apparently discovered—to their shock and confusion—that the new historian did not care much for beds and requested only a thin woolen mattress to sleep on. Annoyed at having to deal with the banalities of sleeping arrangements, Stannis had finally ordered compliance with whatever the historian wanted—within reason.

There had been no introduction to his household or family beyond what was absolutely necessary. Maesters Cressen and Pylos had been informed, of course, and the head of his guards, but to his wife, Stannis mentioned only that he had hired another tutor for Shireen. He was not overly concerned about the YiTish woman posing any particular danger to his family or house. She was escorted at all times by one of his men, who were also tasked with standing guard while she taught Shireen. It never hurt to be cautious.

He had naturally stopped in to observe the first 'lesson' that the woman provided to his daughter. That was an experience. His daughter was in the middle of some question relating to celestial navigation in Yi Ti when he arrived, quietly pushing open her door to listen. Shireen caught sight of him and seemed to panic, faltering as she spoke, her voice trailing off to a whisper. She seemed afraid to see him, as if he might have come to tell her this was all just a cruel joke. It upset him greatly to recognize she no longer trusted him the same way as before—she shrank back shyly, unwilling to offer anything that might make him angry with her again.

Interestingly, the historian had merely continued as if Stannis were not there. Beyond a perfunctory glance when he first entered the room, she did not look at him or pause in her reply, answering Shireen with calm patience and a kindness that intrigued and relieved him. If he had any doubts about the _subject_ of the lesson, they were eclipsed by a sudden gut feeling that he had done well in hiring the foreigner, even just as a companion for his daughter. An _odd_ companion, certainly, but a fair sight better than an old smuggler-turned-traitor. It also benefited Shireen to have another woman's presence in her life, particularly someone who seemed far warmer to the girl than Selyse.

It was only when Shireen stood to curtsy formally to her father that the historian had paused what she was doing and bowed in her peculiar way, straightening when he cleared his throat and told them to carry on. He left almost immediately after, awkwardly sidling out of the room for the first time in his life. He'd never felt so strongly like he didn't belong.

The unnerving feeling stayed with him throughout the rest of the morning. He was still brooding alone atop the Stone Drum when Selyse barged in, shattering his solitude. To his surprise, she was accompanied by her uncle, Axell Florent, with the historian in tow. His castellan was puffed up with religious fervor no doubt, while his captive seemed as serene as a mountain lake despite Axell's meaty fist gripping the back of her dress like he might hold the scruff a stray hound. Did the foreign woman ever show emotion? Belatedly, he remembered his amusement at making her flustered during their first encounter—she was not truly made of stone.

Stannis now fixed his eyes exasperatedly on the historian as his wife spoke. _Turning into quite the disturbance, aren't you?_

"Tell me you did not actually approve of this folly," his wife was saying. Stannis tore his gaze from the YiTish woman to pin Selyse with angry eyes.

"You forget your place," he barked. He was the King and the Lord of his House—he would not be questioned. Selyse looked alarmed but drew herself up, changing tack swiftly in an attempt to bring him around to her view.

"Forgive me, my King. When you mentioned a new tutor for your daughter, I did not believe it would be… this woman." Selyse motioned vaguely to where the historian stood. "I feel it would be best for Shireen to continue learning only what she must from Maesters Cressen and Pylos—she neglects her needlepoint and other more important lessons already as it is."

"Would it not benefit Shireen to learn more of the world before she one day assumes her place as my sole heir?" He did not mean for it to be a slight against his wife, who had only borne him one living daughter. From her wounded expression, Selyse believed that was exactly what he intended. Her cheeks flushed with shame, and he grimaced. His uncle-in-law looked none too pleased, either, but wisely said nothing.

"Let her go," Stannis ordered, gesturing to Axell. The castellan complied roughly, releasing the historian with an unnecessary shake that sent the woman stumbling forward a few paces. Stannis thought he saw a flash of anger on her face as she caught her balance, but perhaps it was a trick of the light.

"Your daughter doesn't need any more _learning_." Selyse looked positively scandalized at the idea. "What she needs is _faith_. I recommend she spend more time with the Lady Melisandre when she returns, not some… some heathen tutor." She bestowed a haughty glare upon the immobile, expressionless historian.

The thought of Shireen listening to more of Melisandre's teachings made Stannis' stomach turn for some reason. The priestess was polite in her unwillingness to spend much time around the princess. Shireen, on her part, made no secret of her dislike for the woman. Stannis had hoped it was simply a child's resentment, reflecting the favor he showed the priestess compared to Shireen's own mother.

Stannis recalled the interaction he had observed that morning between his daughter and the historian. There was no question in his mind that the new foreigner, unusual as she might be, was a better fit to keep Shireen occupied than the Red Priestess could ever be. It irked Stannis that Selyse found the historian's foreign-ness a detriment but did not apply the same standard to Melisandre, who hailed from a similarly distant land. Why should he trust the sorceress over the self-proclaimed scholar?

"I have made my decision." He spoke with an air of finality. He wanted no more discussion—this would be the end of the matter. The wave of disappointment and disbelief from Selyse and her uncle was almost palpable as it washed over the room. "Shireen will continue to have lessons as long as I see fit."

"Then her 'lessons' are _over_ for today," his wife said curtly. "Your daughter will return to the more _womanly_ and appropriate pursuits for the rest of the afternoon." Stannis gritted his teeth. His wife having the last word on this issue bordered on the insolent.

"Selyse," he commanded. She stopped in her tracks like a frightened doe. "I will not say it again—remember to whom you speak, and how. When I seek your counsel, I will let you know. _Our_ daughter's lessons are complete for today, but you will not interfere with them in the future."

"My King." It sounded resentful, but that was nothing new. His wife and her uncle departed, finally leaving him alone again.

Except he was not alone.

He looked askance at the historian. She wore a thin dress that no doubt previously belonged to one of the maids; it was a drab, faded brown, with an unflattering cut that drowned her boyish frame in fabric. He suspected his wife had ordered the woman to wear it—the tunic and breeches the foreigner had arrived in were decidedly improper for a woman to wear. With a start, he realized he did not know her name. He had simply been referring to her as 'the historian,' or even just 'the foreigner.' That was not so chivalrous of him.

"What is your name?" he asked finally. A ghost of a smile seemed to touch her lips, but it was gone before he could be sure. She bowed to him, but it struck him as somewhat obligatory rather than heartfelt.

"I am called Lo Jun, Your Grace."

His uncertainty must have shown.

"Lo is my family name," she clarified. "My given name is Jun." He frowned.

"You place your family name first?" She looked surprised at the question.

"Family is most important, Your Grace. The needs of the family group come before the individual. Our names reflect the order of things." He had never considered what something so simple as the order of first and last names might suggest about the greater context of society. Stannis considered Lo Jun with new curiosity for a moment before motioning for her to sit somewhere.

He collapsed into his high-backed chair at the head of the Painted Table, legs splayed out before him as he studied the vast expanse of ocean that was visible from the windows. Even so high up, the wind carried the wet and the smell of salt—and now, as of late, an additional draftiness that signaled the coming winter.

His historian sat unobtrusively to his right, her legs folded beneath her body and her hands resting on her upper thighs. Stannis almost immediately put her out of his mind, resuming the mental wandering his wife had interrupted.

With Davos imprisoned and Melisandre gone, he felt unmoored. He knew his men grumbled increasingly with each day about his lack of action; knew that new dissent was born amidst the growing number of fights that seemed to break out between his men who still followed the Seven, and those who, like his wife, had embraced the Lord of Light. But Stannis could see no way to advance. His numbers were too few, his coffers too low to support another large-scale attack against King's Landing, especially not when the city was defended by both Lannister _and_ Tyrell men. The best he could do was to chip slowly away at the coastline, bringing the remaining disobedient lords who lived there to heel.

As he pondered, lost in the fog of his own thoughts, the sun sank slowly in the sky.

The shadows were long indeed when he finally remembered that he had company. The historian had not moved in some time, he realized, eyeing her out of the corner of his vision. If she grew cold, she gave no sign.

She had apparently brought with her parchment, quill, and a small, stoppered bottle of ink, which she laid out neatly in front of her after taking her seat. As of yet, the pages were blank. It seemed she found nothing remarkable to write. He was slightly if irrationally offended—did she think he was a boring king? Or perhaps she was asleep, despite her open eyes. He had noticed when she arrived that she appeared a great deal more haggard than the day they first met. _Perhaps she is dead_ , he thought morbidly, _and the cold has kept her from falling over_.

"Why are you not writing?" he asked her after many minutes of silence. As he spoke, Stannis could see a subtle shift in her posture, as if her mind was returning to her body after taking a journey.

"What would you have me write, Your Grace?" So, she was not asleep. And not dead, which was oddly comforting. He chalked it up to a normal aversion to unknowingly sitting next to corpses.

"Isn't a historian supposed to chronicle history?"

"In my experience, the vast majority of history consists of nothing notable. Future generations only pay attention to excitement, which happens randomly." She spoke evenly, but he looked at her closely—was she laughing at him? He grit his teeth, caught between annoyance and a budding sense of reluctant amusement.

"Was your encounter with my queen wife not excitement enough for you?"

Lo Jun smiled slightly.

"History would be dull indeed if every family squabble were to be chronicled." Stannis wasn't sure it was terribly flattering to call the confrontation a 'squabble.' But the woman had a point—he and Selyse never understood or even liked each other, and it was common for them to quarrel. He grunted in grudging assent, working his jaw.

She was hard to read, this YiTish historian. He had to admit her self-control was impressive. Lo Jun almost certainly was not so calm simply by nature, judging from how uncomfortable she had been when they first met, or how angry she seemed when Axell Florent pushed her, no matter how briefly. It was unnatural to be so placid. Stannis wanted to bait her a little. He found it hard to trust such a stone woman.

"Tell me your impression of the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms." Sarcasm tinted his command. He was a king in name only—king of a desolate rock in the middle of an angry sea.

The sudden intensity of her gaze pinned him to his chair. Her eyes traveled from the soles of his boots slowly up his body—though she did not linger anyplace inappropriate, he still colored faintly as she swept her gaze past his crotch. Finally, her obsidian eyes met and held his, and in them he saw nothing but guilelessness.

"You are difficult to understand and to love, but you inspire fierce loyalty in those who are drawn to you."

He snorted. Apparently he was terrible at reading faces—or she was an expert actress. Perhaps even both. "You are lying."

He could see her crooked smile, half hidden in the shadows that obscured her face.

"No, Your Grace," she said softly. He felt as if she were dissolving into the evening, her voice floating out from the growing darkness. It occurred to him that, contrary to the ominous association that the shadows held for the Red Woman, the stillness of the night that surrounded Lo Jun was peaceful—the warm darkness of the womb, not the cold of a bottomless chasm. "I have seen the love your men can have for you. May your gods help you see just as I have seen, before it slips through your fingers and is lost."

* * *

 _A/N: KioshiUshima: aw, thanks a bunch! :3  
_

 _Also, as a general note, Chapter Five has been re-uploaded. Apparently the gremlin who lives in my computer likes to delete random words when uploading docs to the FF Doc Manager, and I didn't proofread before hitting "post." Derp._


	8. Chapter Seven

The days settled into an easy routine.

Lo Jun woke early, even before most of the keep stirred. She would break her fast alone, watched carefully by the bleary-eyed guard assigned to shadow her, and retire to her small room until the sun rose sufficiently high above the horizon. Lessons with Shireen occupied her mornings until the midday meal. The princess remained a sponge for knowledge, and Lo Jun quickly realized she needed to plan the day's subjects better so as not to get too off track with endless tangential questions. Her lunch consisted of hurried bites at whatever the cook happened to have laying around while assembling an outline for the next day's lessons. She felt a new respect for her own tutors as a child back in Yi Ti—Shireen was half as precocious as Lo Jun was at her age, and Lo Jun still had trouble keeping the girl focused sometimes on the task at hand.

She tried several times early on to make a foray into other areas of the castle, only to be rebuffed by her assigned guard. The man seemed to be under orders not to let her wander too far or to interact too much with the household staff. It was something of a mercy in disguise, she later conceded—conversations seemed to stop whenever Lo Jun passed by, and she could feel the curious, sometimes distrustful gazes of Dragonstone's residents burning holes in her back.

It was a lonely existence. Shireen was kind and inquisitive and plainly adored Lo Jun, but the girl was still too young to appreciate adult things on a level beyond the superficial. Lo Jun's interactions with Selyse and Axell Florent were fortunately few and filled with obvious dislike when the three were actually forced to acknowledge each other's presence. Being so isolated was a new kind of torture for Lo Jun—one in which her soul ached to be immersed in the hustle and bustle of ordinary human activity, not kept away from everything as if she carried some deadly contagion. In short, she was _bored_.

To top it off, she sat for hours when she was with Stannis, saying nothing. In truth, of course, Stannis was an easy king to serve—he rarely acknowledged her presence beyond dismissing the guard who watched her. Meditation was nothing new to Lo Jun, either—she could remain still for days if she had to. She was, however, quite unaccustomed to the desperate solitude that enveloped the tower where the king could always be found.

To keep herself from completely losing her mind, she occasionally she made notes in YiTish on the parchment before her—not history, exactly, but details about Dragonstone and its denizens that might become useful once she could plan a successful escape. She was careful to coincide her writing with Stannis' movements, only jotting her thoughts down once he had done or said something that could possibly be worthy to record.

Sadly, those occasions were few and far between.

For the most part, however, Lo Jun watched the king as he paced and sank deeper and deeper into his own misery. She memorized the lines around his eyes and the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders and the sound his boots made when they crossed the stone floor for the thousandth time. He was handsome, she realized, particularly in the rare moments when he softened and dropped the brooding expression that never seemed to leave his face. Stress had no doubt aged him beyond his years—though his hair was gray and his face drawn, he could not have been older than her closest brother, who would now be just a year shy of forty. She pitied him, lost in a maze of his own making.

In the silence, she thought she grew to understand him.

Stannis was clearly adrift, caught between his own desires and needs and the demands pushed upon him by a never ending stream of subordinates: he must invade the mainland, but he must not act hastily without adequate backing; he must sacrifice more criminals to the Lord of Light, but he must not alienate those of his men who still believed in their other gods; he must take the Iron Throne _now_ , but he could not muster enough support to launch a successful raiding party, let alone assault the capital.

Fresh eyes always helped to see a path in the maze. Lo Jun itched to reach out with a hand, if only to calm his simmering frustration. But dwelling on what she could not fix was a waste of time and energy. Instead, she satisfied herself with wondering when he would finally come to his senses and give her something interesting to see.

On her seventeenth morning as tutor on Dragonstone, Lo Jun woke with a fresh sense of rebelliousness. She dressed and ate, pointedly ignoring the guard who followed her every movement. To his credit, the man was polite, but she was tired of the invisible bars that caged her. She wanted a taste of freedom.

When she reached the forbidding set of steps that led up to Shireen's rooms, Lo Jun paused. The guard hesitated as well, his watery blue eyes wary as she turned her most charming smile on him.

"Ser Berin, will you wait here this morning? With these stairs, I fear for your health." Berin frowned and looked self-consciously down at his protruding belly. It was true—he did tend to have trouble ascending the staircase, often pausing several times as Lo Jun smoothly and steadily climbed ahead. The man was terribly out of shape, wheezing and red in the face at the best of times, but he was loyal and dutiful, and did not want to defy his orders.

"I am not to leave you unescorted, milady." He sounded doubtful, but Lo Jun knew she had already won. She could smell the reek of sour ale on his breath and through his pores, evidence of last night now most likely sloshing queasily in his stomach.

"There is only one way up or down from this tower, good ser. I assure you, the princess and I will be a shout away if anything happens," she pressed him gently. Berin looked up the steeply curving steps and grimaced.

"I can climb stairs unescorted, Ser Berin." Finally, he huffed, but nodded and uneasily took up a position where the steps began. She smiled again and bowed politely to him. He waved her off gruffly. She tucked her hands in her sleeves and began to climb, elated to have left her keeper behind even for an adventure this small.

Voices echoed down the corridor as Lo Jun approached Shireen's rooms. It was slightly early for their lessons—Lo Jun had anticipated the princess would still be at breakfast, and had hoped she would have a few moments to ready herself before the day's work. With each step, however, she grew more and more horrified to realize Selyse Baratheon was at the top. There was simply no mistaking that shrill voice.

Briefly, Lo Jun considered fleeing back down the stairs—but no, that was the coward's way out.

Lo Jun paused at the landing before Shireen's door and waited, trying to will herself to enter. Her ordinary reluctance to encounter the queen was only amplified by the audible tongue-lashing now taking place. Selyse was clearly berating a maid or a serving girl of some kind—the girl had failed to perform some task, and the queen was thoroughly displeased. There was a low, agitated murmur as the maid sought to explain, followed by a loud clatter of wood against the floor and a terrible silence.

There was a sharp, audible crack—the unmistakable sound of a palm striking a face. Moments later, the door jerked open and Selyse stormed out, her face flushed a bright red with anger. Lo Jun bowed politely and held the position as the woman strode past, watching the queen's feet to make sure she was gone before straightening back up. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the maid still standing in the center of the room, both shaking hands pressed to her rapidly swelling cheek. The girl's eyes, though brimming with tears, blazed with undisguised hatred. The look was gone as quickly as it arrived, however, replaced by a wretched expression that reminded Lo Jun of the sorrow felt by a kicked puppy.

Sniffling, the maid began bundling the offending, dropped kindling up, quickly stacking the branches in the center of the room. In her haste to collect all of the stray pieces and no doubt partially blinded by crying, she tripped on the thick rug and tumbled to the floor with a quiet yelp. Lo Jun padded silently inside, pulling a square kerchief out of her pocket as she approached. An ewer filled with cold water sat on the desk, and she poured some out onto the cloth to soak it.

The maid heard Lo Jun approach and instantly stopped crying at the sight of the foreign woman. Lo Jun waited as the girl scrubbed her face with a sleeve, drawing in hitched breaths as she tried to stifle hiccups. The maid's blue-gray eyes were wide as dinner plates, darting from Lo Jun to the door as if she were a rabbit cornered by a hound. For a moment, Lo Jun wondered whether the girl would bolt.

At arm's length away, Lo Jun offered the wet kerchief to the maid. "The cold will help the swelling," she said, miming the act of placing the kerchief against her face. The maid was plainly staring, but she seemed to relax ever so slightly.

"It's nothing," the girl mumbled, but took the wet cloth and held it gingerly to her flaming cheek.

"Would you care for help?" Lo Jun asked after a minute of awkward silence. From the way the maid was gawking at her, she felt like an exotic animal on display. Thankfully, her question seemed to snap the girl out of whatever fascinated trance she was in.

"Oh, n-no, milady—I mean, mistress," the maid stammered. She scrabbled for another branch to stack, but none were within her reach. Instead, Lo Jun crouched and scooped one up, wordlessly offering it to the girl.

They worked in silence. Lo Jun noticed the maid winced as she pulled the wet cloth away from her face. The redness was beginning to darken—she would probably have a healthy bruise the next morning.

"Are you well?" Lo Jun asked. A shrug was her answer. _Poor girl_ , thought Lo Jun. The maid was quite young, perhaps only five and ten years of age. "What is your name?" she asked, hoping to put the girl at ease.

"Emma Storm, mistress." She sounded subdued, but Lo Jun could hear a clear tremor in the girl's voice that still betrayed her shock at being struck.

"How long have you been at Dragonstone?"

"A year, mum," she said quietly, fiddling with a stray piece of a branch that had broken off earlier when the bundle hit the floor.

"Is this a common occurrence for you?" Emma looked confused, so Lo Jun gestured to the girl's cheek. Ashamed, the maid gave another shrug. She clearly did not want to actually answer in the affirmative.

"Can you not find another employer?" It was an honest question. Indentured servitude was abundant in Yi Ti.

"I _wanted_ to stay in King's Landing, but…" Emma looked positively morose. Her lower lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears again, threatening to spill over.

"But… your previous employer was worse?" Lo Jun prompted kindly. To her surprise, Emma looked shocked and vigorously shook her head.

"Oh _no_ , Lord Varys would _never_ treat…" the girl's emphatic voice trailed off suddenly, and from the guilty look in her eyes Lo Jun guessed Emma had just inadvertently admitted something.

Stannis was Lord of Dragonstone. Jun knew of the other powerful names in the household, like Axell Florent, that loathsome knight, and his charismatic brother, Alester, and she had become familiar with the names of a few other influential bannermen as well. Westerosi names were still rather confusing and alien to Lo Jun, but she was fairly certain no lord in Stannis Baratheon's service was named 'Varys.' Judging by the esteem Emma seemed to have for this person—particularly compared to the loathing she obviously felt for Selyse—the maid's loyalty to House Baratheon was far from guaranteed.

It was obvious that Stannis would have spies in his household. From her unremarkable appearance and mousy demeanor, this girl would pass without note amongst the men in this place. Lo Jun knew from experience that women often made the best spies—unseen, unheeded, they could rifle through papers and listen to conversations without anyone caring. After all, what did women know beyond children and housework?

It was a suspicion, nothing more—a gut reaction after so many years spent in the God-Emperor's court.

She decided to play up the clueless barbarian. It seemed her foreign-ness gave her a bit of leeway to behave inappropriately here—after all, what else could these people expect from someone so uncivilized as herself? The girl was also careless in her youth, and from her position of cultural superiority would no doubt believe Lo Jun harmless.

When she bent to pick up another branch, she nudged a folded piece of parchment out of her pocket. It floated to the ground as Lo Jun pretended not to see it, the corners opening gently like petals in the breeze.

Emma noticed. "Excuse me, mistress, but you dropped this…" she began, but stopped when she saw what the parchment contained. The girl studied it for a moment with eyes that grew increasingly wider, and then covered her mouth.

Lo Jun turned and feigned surprise. "Oh, so sorry!" She tried to grab for the parchment, but Emma pulled it away at the last second. The girl cast an anxious look over her shoulder at the door as she waved the parchment in the air, exposing the unmistakably crude drawing of Selyse Baratheon sporting goat hooves and a tail, dancing in front of a bonfire.

Lo Jun had drawn the picture earlier that morning in a fit of boredom, still angry from her latest rude encounter with the Lady of Dragonstone. She hadn't had a chance to burn it yet, but that seemed quite fortuitous now. The picture would undoubtedly cause problems for her if someone saw it—Selyse of course would be extremely offended, and it was likely the religious converts in the household would not appreciate Lo Jun's blasphemy. She knew, though, that Stannis would not be particularly upset beyond some strong annoyance with Lo Jun's obvious lack of respectability.

"This is _brilliant_!" the maid whispered with glee. "It looks just like her!" Lo Jun managed to snatch the parchment back this time, hurriedly folding it back up and stuffing it deep into her pocket once more. She let her face redden appropriately as Emma giggled.

"Oh, don't worry," said Emma, smiling mischievously. "I won't tell anyone, promise." Lo Jun gave the girl a grateful smile, bowing slightly in thanks. In return, Emma winked audaciously at Lo Jun before busying herself with straightening up the rest of the woodpile.

Feeling satisfied with her attempt at forging a common bond between herself and the maid, Lo Jun returned to collecting the remaining wood, waiting until the atmosphere in the room settled into something more casual. Dropping the incriminating drawing had given Emma a secret to keep for Lo Jun—now Lo Jun wanted a secret in return. She suspected the girl would feel more comfortable talking knowing both that Lo Jun also disliked Selyse, and that she had a weapon to use against Lo Jun if the need arose.

"I am sorry, Emma, but I am new to your language—what is a 'Varys?" Lo Jun offered the maid the last branch, her face carefully schooled into an innocently curious expression. Surprised, Emma hooted and clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Oh!" exclaimed the maid. Again she looked quickly around the room, and lowered her voice almost to a whisper. "He's not a thing, he's a person. He… was my employer before I came here." She hesitated ever so slightly before putting the word in past tense. Lo Jun concealed a smile. "He serves on the King's Small Council—King Joffrey, that is, and King Robert before him, too, and King Aerys. He's a great man. They call him 'The Spider,' you know. Oh, well, you probably don't know. They say he knows everything that goes on in the Seven Kingdoms." Emma's eyes shone with admiration.

Lo Jun nodded along placidly, internally triumphant. The official spymaster, then. There was no doubt in her mind that Emma worked for this Spider. The girl had likely been selected for her totally unexceptional nature, and sent to spy on the Baratheon stronghold. But how did she communicate with her masters? There had to be a network embedded somehow in the household that ferried messages back, and instructions forward. Releasing a raven each time to carry secrets was too obvious, too difficult. Emma was only the end of a human chain—or a spider's web—that led back to King's Landing.

The possibility of ferreting out the spies in the Baratheon household excited Lo Jun. Her mind uncoiled like a snake in the sun.

This was her game.

"I can see why you admire him," she said. Emma nodded enthusiastically.

"The Seven Kingdoms would not be where they are without him," the girl declared. Lo Jun raised her eyebrows in an expression of appreciation. "But no one on Dragonstone, well… Lord Varys serves the king in King's Landing, and Lord Stannis… they just don't understand, here. You won't tell anyone I worked for Lord Varys, will you?" Emma hefted the bundle of kindling and bit her lip, giving Lo Jun a plaintive look.

Lo Jun placed a hand over her heart. "I will not tell if you do not," she promised. Emma gave Lo Jun a conspiratorial smile before making her exit. The maid paused at the door for a moment.

"If you want to know more about Lord Varys, or the Seven Kingdoms, come find me," she said quietly. "I've always been curious about Lord Stannis, and I heard you're spending a lot of time with him. Mayhaps we can help each other."

"Oh yes," Lo Jun smiled, watching the girl go. "I very much hope we speak again soon."

* * *

 _A/N: KioshiUshima: your encouragement is so nice! I think it's also because I've made Lo Jun older than most OCs. She's in her early thirties, though I haven't mentioned it in-story yet, haha.  
_

 _majaapproves: thank you! I hope you continue to enjoy it._

 _yarysa12: thanks so much! I'm trying to redeem show!Stannis a bit..._


	9. Chapter Eight

Axell Florent was, Stannis decided, one of the least pleasant men in the Seven Kingdoms.

For one thing, the florid man's jowls jiggled repulsively when he was excited, like he was at the moment. Stannis detested waste and gluttony, reminded as he was of the terrible starvation and death during the siege at Storm's End during Robert's Rebellion. Axell embodied the polar opposite of Stannis' frugal personal creed. He enjoyed wine and dined richly on meat, surrounding himself with opulent fabrics and furs courtesy of his House's deep coffers.

He was also, annoyingly, one of his wife's most outspoken advocates, and a militant devotee of the Lord of Light. Stannis could scarcely recall a conversation with Axell in which the man did not reference his new religion, or somehow praise the queen for her own ardent devotion. Stannis tired quickly of his uncle-in-law's constant nudging to accept more religion into his life, as if more prayer or human sacrifices would magically wipe away his recent failures on the battlefield. No matter what power the Red Priestess wielded, Stannis had never seen magic that could turn back time.

To top it off, the man apparently did not notice or did not care that his king deliberately wrapped himself in gloomy solitude. As the castellan of Dragonstone, Axell had more access to Stannis than the rest of the men—the king could not wall himself away from _all_ of his duties permanently, no matter how hard he wished. This meant that Stannis now had to listen to Axell's angry and uninvited ranting, unable to simply toss the man out lest he insult the Florents as a whole—and the Florents commanded more than half of his dwindling army. Despite Stannis' lack of response, Axell continued to talk, pounding a meaty fist into the Painted Table to accentuate his points.

It gave Stannis a headache. He massaged his temple, grimacing as the table shook with another impact.

"Ser Axell," he finally said, cutting the man off sharply. " _What_ , exactly, have you come here to do?" He had lost sight of the point of the conversation a while ago, as his uncle-in-law took a detour through some harangue about how heathens inevitably betrayed the righteous followers of the Lord of Light.

Axell drew himself up as far as his stout body could go. "You must attack Claw Isle and bring that weak, traitorous cretin Ardrian Celtigar to heel! He has abandoned you and bent the knee again to Joffrey _Lannister_. He hides in King's Landing, fearing your righteous fury—"

"Committing my forces to Claw Isle would not get me any closer to the Iron Throne." This should have been obvious to Axell Florent. Claw Isle was inconsequential, save for the riches hoarded by old man Castigar in his avarice. But there was no market he could access that could buy up a thousand aged wines or Myrish carpets and replenish his own treasury.

"It would _send a message_." Axell's hand hit the table again and Stannis grit his teeth, glaring fiercely at the man. "Put the population there to the sword, take the wealth that Celtigar kept for himself and that rightfully belongs to you. He must feel the sting of reprisal for deserting the side of the one, true king!"

"Enough." His command was quiet, an order from a man too drained to shout. Mercifully, though, Axell Florent shut up.

Stannis stood, leaning over the Painted Table as his aging knees protested. Duty had caught up with him, it seemed. Axell Florent had no authority to launch an attack against Claw Isle, but he—and the other Florent men—would expect an answer from their king. The lightly fortified island did boast alleged treasures that made a raid attractive. Stannis did not care much for the theory of revenge against Ardrian Celtigar—the man was a querulous old bastard who hated everything but himself, and it was no real surprise he switched banners after being captured at Blackwater Bay.

He did not want to have to make this decision. On the one hand, he could certainly make use of any potential assets plundered from Claw Isle, and a way to boost morale by giving his men a small taste of victory. On the other, he had a real sense of unease with the whole idea. House Celtigar had admittedly committed their best men to Stannis' cause—now all dead or imprisoned thanks to Stannis' own defeat. What was more, the island itself was strategically unimportant, and he would not choose to expend what few men he still had to hold it secure.

Stannis let his gaze wander across the surface of the Painted Table. The center was carved into a map of the Seven Kingdoms, dotted with dusty figurines representing the locations and numbers of the armed cadre of each House. They had not been moved since before Blackwater Bay, he realized morosely. His own House boasted a great navy, arranged neatly in the formation they had originally planned for the attack on King's Landing.

The table represented his hopes, now crushed beyond repair. He felt the sudden urge to knock all of the figurines down with a violent sweep of his arm, but settled for digging his fingers viciously into the table surface and baring his teeth at the toy kingdom that mocked him silently.

"I will consider your proposal, Axell." The knight opened his mouth to say something, but Stannis shot him a furious glance that froze whatever words Axell had in his throat. The heavy man almost instantly broke out in sweat, as if he just realized how much his presence and relentless pushing infuriated the king. "You are dismissed."

Silence swallowed the chamber once more as Axell Florent jingled his way out. Relief washed over Stannis and he closed his eyes, willing the throb in his temples to subside. He took a deep breath.

He did not trust Axell's counsel. In fact, he did not trust the advice of any Florent. Axell had served him well as castellan, particularly during the period when Stannis resided in King's Landing to serve as Master of Ships on Robert's Small Council, but the man was so close to Selyse and the Red Woman that Stannis often wondered if Axell had an original thought in his head that did not come from either of the two women. He was a competent administrator—a tactician, no.

The inescapable political intrigue that infused his household exhausted him. He was tired of walking the razor's edge between his duty as king and the need to satisfy the wishes of his supporters, who otherwise might also abandon him to rot on this poor island.

The problems imposed by his many duties alone could fill volumes of history. Not for the first time, Stannis felt a flash of resentment towards Robert. The elder Baratheon had dealt with the stress by drinking himself into stupidity and ignoring everything that didn't have sport two sets of lips or involve a tournament. But Stannis suffered the curse of responsibility—while his brother may have been a charming commander, Stannis embodied the unbreakable will of kingship.

How lucky was he, then, that he had his very own historian to record the way he responded to these trying times.

She was so silent and inconspicuous that he often forgot she was in the room with him. Lo Jun had been sitting to one side, as usual, as Axell Florent raged on. Stannis found it beyond strange that she seemed to eschew the use of chairs, instead sitting with her legs folded under her on the cold floor. But barbarians had their own customs and Stannis saw no real need to interfere—this one was harmless enough, although he wondered how she even had use of her legs afterwards.

He glanced down at the parchment set out before the historian, finally interested in what she wrote about him.

The page was blank. She was not even holding a quill.

His temper snapped. Axell Florent had already pushed it past its limits, but now he had something—and someone—to take his anger out on. Most importantly, she was someone who could not deprive him of half his men due to a careless insult.

"Are you truly literate?" he demanded.

"Your Grace?" That serene tone only infuriated him further. Stannis rudely pointed at the parchment in front of the historian, then at her.

"You are here to chronicle my reign, yet you write nothing. So I ask again, are you truly literate, or are you here to waste my time?"

No reaction. She did not even blink.

"I apologize, Your Grace." Her tone was perfectly neutral—not fawning, not fearful. "I am waiting for you to arrive at your decision."

"For that, you may be waiting until we are both dead," he said nastily.

"Then perhaps your final history will be missing this particular chapter." Was it impossible to cause this woman offense? Her lack of response made him hate her in that moment. Faced with a king's wrath, normal, _civilized_ women would have curtseyed and sought to smooth his bruised ego. Did the historian think he was less of a man, undeserving of deference? He was a _king_.

He clenched his jaw so hard he felt his teeth might shatter.

Perhaps she saw him for what the rest of the Seven Kingdoms thought he was—a fool in a crown who embarrassed himself by losing an army to a spineless, spoiled, untested boy.

He barked a short, spiteful laugh. "Have you ever seen such a pitiful king?"

"Self-indulgence does not suit you, Your Grace," she said primly, and picked an invisible piece of lint off her lap.

" _Self-indulgence_?" Stannis roared. He grabbed the heavy chair he had been sitting in when Axell Florent was still present with both hands and cast it violently aside. He barely noticed when the wood splintered as it met the floor, sending an armrest clattering across the stones. Fury colored his sight red, constricting his vision as if he peered through a tunnel—he saw nothing but the woman who stared stubbornly back at him.

"You have brooded alone in this tower for weeks. _Act_ , Your Grace."

"Your words threaten to land you back in my dungeons," he snarled, advancing on her. Forget the dungeons; maybe he would wring her neck himself.

"Good," she said mercilessly, not missing a beat. "Better you be angry with me than drowning in a misery of your own making."

He stopped in his tracks and gaped at her, taken aback by the novelty of such brutal, uninvited honesty. The worst part was Stannis could not exactly argue with her words. He had quite effectively buried the subconscious recognition that perhaps there was no one but himself to blame for his continuing melancholy after Blackwater Bay, but having it now so rudely shoved into his face shocked him like a pail full of ice-cold water. Suddenly, his anger dissipated into wisps like a fog burned off by the morning sun. After a moment, he felt the corner of his mouth rise uncontrollably until the smile spread across his entire face. He laughed then, at himself and his gloomy hopelessness, at her and her startling audacity.

"You have grown bored with me," he accused. She shrugged and finally bestowed upon him a look that plainly said, _yes, but it's your fault_.

"You remind me of Davos Seaworth," he commented dryly, shaking his head. "Both of you tell me the candid truth, though I most likely will dislike it."

"You have rewarded him for it strangely." Belatedly, Stannis realized the two probably met—he had Davos imprisoned after Lo Jun's arrival, after all. It should not have surprised him that they would talk, and that Lo Jun would learn of Davos' crimes.

"Do you not imprison traitors in Yi Ti?"

"No," she replied calmly. "We execute them immediately."

He snorted. "And that is not too harsh?"

She offered him a slight shrug with one shoulder. "It is accepted. The punishment is always known before the crime is committed. But it is not always wise."

Stannis raised his eyebrows. "Unwise for a king to rid himself of treason?"

"Treason may sometimes be a matter of opinion." He scoffed. She held up a slender hand, bowing her head in acknowledgement of his disbelief. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I will not argue that Ser Davos committed a crime if he truly did attempt to kill a member of your household without your consent. But what is treason? Is it believing or speaking dissent, when a loyal vassal thinks his king may make a mistake? If a king denounces all opposing views, then he hears nothing but his own echoes when making decisions. There is no one to suggest another way, not when everyone fears that a word in disagreement will end his or her life. And _that_ , Your Grace, is how dynasties fall."

"What does a woman know of the choices that burden a king." He turned away from her, shoulders slumping now that his anger had dissolved, taking his energy with it. Stannis began to clear the figurines on the table, tossing the majority of Baratheon ships to the floor in disgust. "What would you know of the knowledge that I condemned thousands of men to their deaths out of duty? I do not regret the sacrifices I had to make, but my duty is a cold solace to their widows and orphans." Stannis held up a wooden statute that symbolized knights supplied by the Florents, most of whom never even saw battle after Imry Florent's ships exploded and sank to the bottom of the bay. He studied it critically, back to grinding his teeth in frustration.

"And now I must decide the fate of an island full of people. If I trusted Axell Florent's counsel, I would ransack Claw Isle and burn the whole population for heresy to please the Lord of Light." The thought of mass burnings disgusted him. Stannis had no love for criminals and saw no unfairness in condemning justly tried men, but he was a man of the sword, not the flame. Better a quick beheading or a hanging, if he must. The burnings—an import with that blasted religion that sank its roots into his household—turned his stomach, though he refused to show it. The pyre was no way to die, not even for the dishonorable convicts sentenced under his law.

"'A dog that accompanies his master to lessons will learn to read and write in three years,'" she quipped. It took a moment for her words to sink in, but that didn't help his comprehension. He scowled at her.

"What," he snapped. It was less of a question and more of a demand. Riddles did not entertain him. She looked at him patiently.

"It is a proverb, Your Grace. Behavior is the product of its environment." Lo Jun stood in one fluid motion, somehow betraying no stiffness from the hours she spent sitting in the room. She cross the distance between them with small, sure steps, and came to stand before him. He let her pluck the figurine out of his hands. Her fingers were warm as they brushed his skin, and he flinched at the brief contact. She did not seem to notice. Holding the little statute in one hand, she arranged the others representing Florent men in a circle around one solitary Baratheon figurine.

"You are insulated here." She tapped the Baratheon carving with a petite finger. "Around you, you have men of one type, with one mind. When they guide you, you see only what they see and learn only what they learn—you take on their fears, their hopes, their plans. That is the same as the king I spoke of earlier who listens only to his own mind. _Differing views_ are what enable us to proceed wisely. They may not all be correct, but they are there to remind us of new possibilities. Ser Davos may be your lone voice of resistance to the others—locked away as he is, he cannot serve you the way you need him most."

"Are you attempting to counsel me, historian?" He meant it partly in jest and partly in warning. She was no one—a foreigner with no title who relied on his good will to survive, let alone remain on Dragonstone. He could grudgingly admit that Lo Jun amused and, surprising, had just reassured him in a very odd way, but she had no rights here beyond what he granted her. She must be reminded of her place, if she forgot.

"I do not pretend to know how to rule, Your Grace," she said softly. "I am only here as an observer. If I gave offense, it was not intended."

He settled back down somewhat, examining her face for the first time in many days. The bruises and cuts that decorated her skin at their first meeting had long since healed. She still wore the golden birds in her ears, he noted, visible due to the way her hair had been braided and pinned up into buns like two figure eights behind her ears.

"So, if I understand correctly, you would have me release Davos despite his treason?"

She met his eyes boldly. "Yes," she answered. "I believe you trust him above the others. You need advice from someone who will not shy from the truth. You need a set of eyes and ears not tainted by fanaticism and or love of self. Otherwise, you remain trapped in the circle of voices, all reflecting off of one another like the sun off of mirrors."

"Did he ask you to do this?" Stannis could not imagine Davos imploring Lo Jun to intercede on his behalf with the king. The man might have been a traitor, but he was an honorable criminal who took his own deserved punishment without complaint.

Lo Jun shook her head. "No, Your Grace. He accepts your will, whatever it may be." Stannis didn't answer, staring as he was at the group of Florent figurines looming ominously over the lonely Baratheon.

Finally he grunted, nodding once.

"Very well. We shall see what Davos Seaworth says, and if you are right."

* * *

 _A/N: KioshiUshima: yeah, I'm probably blatantly showing my girl power side here (thanks Tamora Pierce). Thank **you** for reading, haha! _


	10. Chapter Nine

The next morning, Lo Jun awoke alone.

Of course, she was always _alone_ within the confines of her small, drab room, but when she peeked out of the door Ser Berin, her usual portly shadow, was nowhere to be found. A quick glance down both directions of the hallway confirmed the absence of any guards. She quickly squashed the feeling of elated freedom as she made her way down to the kitchens for her morning meal. It would be premature to get her hopes up just yet. Until she heard otherwise, she figured she had best assume this was a mistake on Berin's part, or on the part of his replacement. It would not be the first time in the world that guards fell ill or shirked their duties.

It was early enough that the kitchens were still largely quiet save for the head cook and one of her assistants, who manhandled sacks of flour out of the storage room with alarming strength. The head cook noticed Lo Jun's arrival out of the corner of her eye and grunted a greeting, by now used to the foreign woman's coming and going while the rest of the keep still slept. She and Lo Jun had never spoken more than a handful of words to each other and did not know each other's names, but the cook cared less about _who_ was in her kitchen than she did about the mess they made, and Lo Jun was more fastidious than the many other visitors.

The cook pointed to a table in the far corner where linens covered a few baskets filled with day-old rolls and dried meats. Lo Jun nodded in thanks. While the rest of Stannis Baratheon's household seemed to eat heartily, the food on Dragonstone sat heavily like river stones in Lo Jun's stomach. It was too rich in butter and milk, which made her feel queasy—YiTish food was lighter, and her body still resisted the adjustment to the new cuisine. If the food in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms was as dense as what she ate here, Lo Jun was half convinced she would be better off boarding the next ship back to Essos.

As she sat and selected her choice of bread, the door to the kitchens opened again and a sleepy-eyed Emma crept in. Lo Jun smiled welcomingly when the girl spotted her.

"Good morning, Emma," she said, offering the girl the basket of bread. Emma grabbed a piece without looking, rubbing her eyes with her free hand. Her cheek still sported a purple bruise from where Selyse struck her, though it was beginning to heal and fade around the edges into a mottled green and yellow.

"Good morning," the young maid answered with a sigh.

"You are awake early today," Lo Jun observed. Emma nodded morosely, stifling a yawn.

"Mistress Delia wants some more girls to clean out Ser Davos Seaworth's rooms." Her eyes lit up despite her sleepiness. "Have you heard? Do you think this means His Grace will pardon Ser Davos?"

Lo Jun did not miss the fact that Emma now referred to Stannis as 'His Grace.' During their earlier encounter, the girl had only addressed Stannis as 'Lord,' which Lo Jun had learned certainly did not match what one would call a king in these lands. Lo Jun glanced up at the head cook, who was just then passing by bearing an enormous wheel of yellow cheese on one shoulder. She laughed to herself—so, Emma was not _quite_ as careless as Lo Jun would have thought. Pity. The less cautious a spy, the easier to follow. But of course, if Emma truly worked for the spymaster in King's Landing, she would naturally have had _some_ instruction.

"I do not know," the historian told the girl, lying with ease. "Wasn't Ser Davos one of King Stannis' closest advisors? Perhaps the king misses Davos' counsel."

"I don't think he's ever really listened to Ser Davos," muttered Emma darkly, wrinkling her nose. She lowered her voice to a murmur. "Just the Red Woman. We'd prob'ly all be calling _her_ 'Queen' if it weren't for Lady Selyse."

 _Gods forbid_ , thought Lo Jun, and suppressed a grimace. Selyse was bad enough.

"Have you ever met Lady Melisandre?" Emma shook her head, her mouth full of bread.

"Only the head housekeeper gets to clean the Red Priestess' quarters," she said after swallowing. "And I hear _no one_ is allowed into her inner rooms. I bet that's where she keeps her sorceries, like demons and lizard tails and human hearts."

Lo Jun didn't think it was very fair to lump lizards in with demons and human body parts, but she shuddered anyway. Who knew what monsters the priestess kept locked up? It made her light-headed just to imagine.

"Have you ever encountered someone like the Red Priestess before?" Emma shook her head again. "Not even in your former employer's household? I am sure such a powerful man would have sorcerers at hand, no?"

"Oh no," Emma replied confidently, smiling like a cat with a secret. "My Lord Varys would not approve, not at all."

Interesting. Lo Jun wondered if the Red Woman's presence in Stannis' household had anything to do with the Spider sending spies. Keeping tabs on the enemy was certainly to be expected, but if this Varys indeed had such an aversion to the use of magic, perhaps there was more to his secret watch over the island. At least she felt comforted knowing that perhaps the Red Woman was the only shadowbinder in the Seven Kingdoms.

"Are there many smallfolk from King's Landing here on Dragonstone?" Lo Jun asked.

"No," Emma said, a bit sadly. "Most folk are from the island. They keep to themselves."

"I hope you have made friends here, though, yes?" Lo Jun spoke kindly. While she was more interested in the people Emma interacted with, she also could not help but feel sorry for the girl. From experience, Lo Jun knew it was hard to be so distant from everything familiar. Memories of Yi Ti bubbled up unbidden in her mind and for a moment, she could almost smell the incense that always wafted through the God-Emperor's palace. Irritated with herself, she bit the inside of her cheek to stop the ridiculous tears that prickled behind her eyes.

Emma giggled. "Yes, of _course_ ," she said, rolling her eyes a bit. "You don't have to mother me." Lo Jun smiled back at the maid. "Byron the kennel master is very kind, and Gwyn and Roslin. And obviously Wynna is the best cook's assistant in the kitchens!" Her voice rose at the end, loud enough for the cook's only present assistant to hear from the storeroom. The assistant poked her head out from around the storeroom door, her nose dusted with flour.

"Oh, Emma! I didn't know you were here!" This was Wynna, Lo Jun assumed. The dark-haired girl was perhaps a year older than Emma, no more. Dusting her hands off on her apron, she emerged from the storeroom and came to the table where the maid and the historian already sat, peering curiously at Lo Jun.

"Wynna, this is Jun. She's His Grace's official historian. Jun, this is Wynna." Lo Jun was somewhat aghast to be introduced in such an informal manner—without her family name, of all things! Did the rest of the household staff know her simply as Jun as well?—but nodded in friendly greeting to the cook's assistant. It was probably better that the servants thought of her less as a lady and more as one of them—a commoner who did not threaten their established hierarchy or otherwise hold some power of nobility over them. The conversation quickly turned to the latest household gossip—who was courting whom, whose advances had been spurned, and what practical jokes had backfired. Lo Jun listened with half an ear, happy to let the two girls talk.

Ser Berin found them just as Lo Jun was finishing a piece of dried meat tucked between half a stale roll. Her heart sank, but she stood and greeted him with a polite bow. She watched, somewhat amused, as Emma and Wynna scrambled to their feet and curtseyed, stammering a surprised, "good morning, ser." In her haste, Emma dropped her food onto the floor. Berin nodded in acknowledgement, overlooking the half-eaten bread that bounced and came to rest against his boots.

"His Grace sent for you," Berin told Lo Jun gruffly. She blinked in surprise. Making her excuses to Emma and Wynna, she followed Berin out of the kitchens, concerned that something was amiss. The guard said nothing as he clanked along.

"Is everything well, Ser Berin?" she finally inquired. "I did not see you this morning."

Berin grunted. "Aye. And you won't tomorrow. His Grace has decided you no longer need an active guard to keep you out of trouble."

Lo Jun thought she might burst from delight, but she ducked her head out of sight until she mastered the grin that threatened to split her cheeks in two.

"I shall miss your company," she told him gravely. The knight chortled.

"I shan't. No offense milady, but following you around wasn't exactly interesting, or helping my waistline." He patted his bulging stomach in emphasis. Lo Jun raised her eyebrows at him and snorted when he winked roguishly in response.

Berin left her atop the Stone Drum. Ignoring the way her heart began to race uncontrollably in her chest, she pushed open the door to see Stannis standing at the head of the Painted Table, facing a tired-looking Davos. The old smuggler seemed decidedly worse for the wear, his hair and beard long and unkempt. He looked startled to see her, and she gave him a small, warm smile in greeting as if to say, _yes, I have indeed survived_.

"You're late." The king did not look at her as he spoke.

"So sorry, Your Grace." Even though she knew he didn't care for her bowing to him, she deliberately did not do so now in a private show of defiance. His curt tone offended her. If he wanted her here earlier he should have sent someone to fetch her earlier—someone a little _less_ portly than Ser Berin.

"You wanted a decision. You shall get one." Stannis motioned for her to take a seat. "Sit. At the table." Reluctantly, she pulled out one of the high-backed chairs and sat, shifting uneasily as the too-large dress she wore bunched under her legs. Although Stannis still stood, she felt excruciatingly uncomfortable perched on a level equal to the other chairs. In Yi Ti, no one could sit at or above where the emperor and the other nobles sat.

"Ser Davos." Stannis now directly addressed his knight. "The historian believes you will counsel me wisely. I have need of honest advice from someone whose word I trust as being in my best interests alone. But first, you must swear never to raise a hand against the Lady Melisandre again."

The old smuggler was quiet for a long moment.

"If that is Your Grace's will, then I will abide by it. I give you my word." He paused. "I can't swear I'll never _speak_ against her."

Stannis glanced briefly at Lo Jun, his expression unreadable. His jaw bunched—whether in anger or annoyance, she could not tell. She hoped he remembered—and maybe even took to heart—her words from the night before. She had spoken boldly, if not also recklessly, and it surprised her that Stannis was so indulging. Perhaps he was even more desperate for honest words from impartial sources than she originally thought.

"Axell Florent has proposed I attack Claw Isle as retribution for Ardrian Celtigar bending the knee to Joffrey Lannister," the king finally ground out. "What say you?"

Davos looked confused. "There are no men left on Claw Isle."

"No," Stannis responded matter-of-factly. "They either died on the ships at Blackwater Bay, or remained hostage with Ardrian Celtigar in King's Landing."

"Then why attack the island? It holds no strategic importance, no advantage."

Stannis frowned. "To send a message. To let Celtigar and the others who might consider bending the knee to that incest-born Lannister know what will happen once I am crossed."

" _No_ , Your Grace." Davos looked horrified. "There are only women and children left on Claw Isle—and the old and sick. This plan, this _idea_ , is evil. The smallfolk have no say in what their lord does or to whom he submits. They are not traitors. To harm them thus would be a crime." When Stannis did not respond, Davos shook his head. "I believe you already know what I say is true. You are not a man who believes in slaughtering the innocent. If you want to take the Iron Throne, this is not the way to do it."

Stannis looked down at the map of the Seven Kingdoms that stretched before him on the table. Someone had placed a lone Baratheon figurine on Claw Isle. Now, the king reached out and toppled the little carving, sending it clattering a few inches across the wood.

"It is my duty to take the Iron Throne," he said harshly, leaning down to brace his palms on the table. "It matters not what I want. My _duty_ demands it, and I must obey." Stannis glanced back up at Davos, who stared stony-faced back at his king. "I agree with you, Ser Davos. Claw Isle is a distraction, and fear of reprisals will sway no more men to my cause." He barked a short, wry laugh. "Not that I have enough men to persuade anyone by force, anyway."

Davos seemed relieved, his shoulders relaxing as he let out a deep breath. But Stannis wasn't done.

"I hereby restore you as Hand of the King." Now Davos looked a bit stunned, his eyes glassy. "You have the courage to tell your king the truth, even when it is not well-received. I ought to reward you for that."

Stannis pointed to Lo Jun and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She thought he had forgotten she was there. His serious gray eyes reminded her of a raging, stormy sea, and for some inexplicable reason, her mouth went dry.

 _What, you think the dour king is handsome now that he's actually done something? Get a hold of yourself, woman._

"Record this, historian. _This_ is how I treat good counsel."

"Yes, Your Grace," she said, laboring to raise her voice above a cracked whisper.

"You may go, both of you." Davos struggled to his feet and led the way out of the room as Lo Jun meticulously avoided looking directly at Stannis. It was easy to do—the king was already busy unrolling a pile of scrolls stacked messily before him.

Once outside, she found she could breathe again. She gave her head a slight shake like a wet dog, trying to clear the strange fog that clouded her mind. Davos, on the other hand, seemed very lost, and she cleared her throat quietly.

"Would you care to accompany me, Ser Davos?" she asked. "Princess Shireen takes lessons in the mornings, and I am headed there now. I am sure she would be most delighted if you came to see her as well." The newly reappointed Hand of the King hesitated, unsure, and she ducked her head with an understanding smile. "Or perhaps you may join us in a few hours, after most of Shireen's lessons are done and you have had a chance to wash up."

Davos nodded gratefully. "Aye, that would be best." She bowed low to him in response, as one would to a noble. He made a pained noise.

"No need for that." The man seemed embarrassed. "Hard to accept a bow once you've done your business in an open cell." She gave him a wry look. They'd never actually addressed the awkwardness of having to perform their normal bodily functions within plain view of one another during the days they'd spent locked up in their cells, but he did have a point—it was certainly an equalizing experience, of sorts.

Lo Jun paused at the top of the stairs leading down and cast a fond glance back at the old smuggler.

"It is good to see you again, Ser Davos."

* * *

 _A/N: KioshiUshima: that's the plan! Unfortunately Stannis' story puts him in an awkward position where for once the only solution to his problem is mo' money. So he's gotta go on his field trip first. And maybe a feels trip. Thanks for reading!  
_


	11. Chapter Ten

Shireen's yelp of joy when Davos finally paid a visit near the noon hour nearly deafened Lo Jun. Ears ringing, the YiTish woman smiled and said nothing as Shireen flung herself out of her chair, lessons completely forgotten. The girl threw her arms around Davos, hugging him tight. Lo Jun even spotted some tears in the corner of the princess' eyes, although Shireen quickly—and secretly—wiped them away. Lo Jun pretended to be busy rearranging papers and stoppering her inkwell as she allowed the two to have a moment.

She felt a little sorry for the girl. No matter how bored Lo Jun might have been the island, there could be no doubt that Shireen was the loneliest person on Dragonstone. It was sad that Shireen counted only a foreign historian—and a poor one at that—and an old smuggler as her friends. She seemed not to interact with anyone else, not even her mother or father. While absentee parents were a familiar phenomenon to Lo Jun, at least she, in her own youth, had had a multitude of siblings and other playmates to entertain her.

Offhand, she felt somewhat annoyed with Stannis. Here his daughter met Davos with unbridled happiness, while the king himself rarely saw fit to visit her. Evidently Shireen felt that Davos was more of a father figure, and Lo Jun couldn't fault the girl—Davos was kinder, softer, the type of man whose primary concern was Shireen as a person, not a political tool, and because of that, cared enough to look past her disfigured face.

Shireen led Davos into the room by clutching one of his sleeves and dragging him along, finally depositing him in a chair that was slightly too small for his adult size.

"I _knew_ you weren't a traitor," she was telling him. "I knew Father would realize he was wrong and set you free—you're my friend and he's your king, and you just _couldn't_ be a traitor."

Davos gave the girl a serious look. "But I did commit treason against your father." Shireen blinked in surprise. "I went against his will, and was punished for it. It was only by his mercy that I was let go. Your father was right to imprison me, Princess—I don't want you to think otherwise."

Shireen frowned as she absorbed that information. Lo Jun took a breath to step in with a justification of Davos' alleged treason—she did not want the girl to think her friend was actually a criminal. Well, _more_ of a criminal than he had been in the past, at least. But Davos tweaked Shireen's nose suddenly, making her laugh and breaking the solemn pall that had settled in the room.

"I would have visited you, but Father had guards on my doors at night I couldn't sneak out." She looked positively indignant that Stannis would do such a thing to interfere with her ability to traipse around the keep at will. Lo Jun covered her smile with a hand.

Davos looked sternly at the girl. "And good thing, too. Wandering alone so late at night is dangerous for a young lady like yourself. You could be hurt—I could hardly have forgiven myself if you ended up injured just trying to see me. No to mention, the dungeons are hardly a suitable place for a princess." He gave Lo Jun a meaningful look, as if to say, _don't think I haven't forgotten you encouraged her_. She touched the back of her neck slightly in embarrassment.

"Father said the same thing." Shireen sighed. "What did you do all day? I wish I could have brought you some books to keep you company. Did you have anything to read?"

Davos shook his head slowly. "No, Princess. I'm afraid I, ah… cannot read."

"You can't read?" The princess was quite astonished, her blue eyes wide.

"No, my lady," replied Davos. "I never had anyone to teach me, and not much need to learn."

Shireen glanced at Lo Jun for some validation, aghast at this new information.

"But, surely you need to read in order to be Father's Hand?" the girl pressed, frowning once more. "Father must ask you to help him write or respond to messages."

It was Davos' turn to be embarrassed. Lo Jun winced on his behalf, unseen by her pupil.

"His Grace hasn't asked me to do so yet, I'm afraid." Shireen harrumphed.

"Then I must teach you!" she exclaimed. Davos looked horrified. "It'll help you help Father."

"Shireen—" the man tried to interject, but the girl barreled on as if he hadn't said a word.

"Mistress Lo can teach _me_ in the mornings, and then I will teach _you_ afterwards! It will be perfect—we'll start with the books that helped me learn, and you'll be reading in no time."

Lo Jun almost laughed. That would almost be cruel to poor Davos—the Common Tongue had so many different various combinations of vowels and letters that made no logical sense. She supposed Davos might have an easier time than she did learning the language, since he at least spoke it as his mother tongue. But still—there and their, hair and hare, even that cursed word _through_ , which made no sense when _though_ was pronounced totally differently even though it lacked just one letter.

For his part, Davos looked as if he'd just been struck by a brick. Finally, once the barrage from Shireen was over, he cleared his throat and nodded gravely at the girl.

"Very well, if the Princess Shireen believes I should learn to read, then read I shall. But—" he held up a finger, cutting off her enthusiastic reply, "You must promise not to let our lessons interfere with your own."

Shireen was already promising, her face glowing happily. She darted around her room, digging books out of drawers and trunks, sorting through them while telling Davos all about the alphabet and reading.

It was obvious that Shireen would be totally unable to focus on her studies for the rest of the day, not with how excited she was. Lo Jun sighed in amusement and closed the book containing her own lesson plans—the girl needed a break from work, anyway. Davos beckoned her over and she stood, moving closer to him as the pile of Shireen's books (that he would eventually have to read) steadily grew.

"Do you ride, Lo Jun?" Her face must have betrayed the sudden thrill that shot through her, because Davos laughed. "I take that as a yes. Care to join me? After so long in a tiny box, I feel the need to stretch my legs."

She agreed. They bid farewell to Shireen, who waved them away after extracting a guarantee from Davos to return soon for his first reading lesson.

The stables were busy, but Davos easily procured two saddled horses and led them into the courtyard where Lo Jun waited, wrapped in a gray cloak to ward off the chill. Her mount was a small dun mare, short enough to match Lo Jun's own diminutive size. She managed to somehow clamber atop the mare's back despite her long skirts, swearing darkly under her breath in YiTish at the nuisance they posed.

Davos waited for her, grinning, until she was settled, and then they set off. They followed a well-trod dirt road out of the keep, horses keeping pace alongside each other at an easy trot. Lo Jun grimaced as her seat bounced—it had been quite a while since she rode a horse. She was glad the mare was a patient beast, because a more finicky creature would almost certainly have already dumped her. But the rhythm quickly came back to her

After a mile or so, Davos led them off the road and down a gentle slope, heading for the coastline. There were no other people in this direction—just the curving path and the short yellow grasses that bent before the sea-blown wind.

"The Princess seems well," Davos finally said. "I'm sure she enjoys your lessons and your company." Lo Jun ducked her head in humble appreciation, although inwardly she did feel rather pleased with herself.

"She missed you," she replied. He nodded, humming in agreement. Quiet fell once more. They had come to the edge of the island, standing atop a bluff that overlooked waves breaking mercilessly against a rocky shore. Lo Jun squinted out at the sea, grateful that the thick gray clouds covered the sun and diminished the glare. She could see the steep walls of the keep in the distance, rising forbiddingly above the black cliffs.

"His Grace seems to have accepted you into his household as well." Something in Davos' voice prompted Lo Jun to look at him with concern. He was watching her carefully, like a hawk circling above a rival. She cast a quick glance behind her to confirm that they were alone, fighting a growing sense of nervousness. At best, he wanted to speak with her in private about something that nagged him. Although she did not take him for a cold-blooded killer, there was always the slight possibility he might lop her head off and push her corpse into the sea.

"His Grace is generous," she forced herself to say, smiling politely.

"No, he isn't." Davos had no illusions about the man he served. Lo Jun swallowed uncomfortably. Flattery would not work here. "He does not trust easily."

"I am sure His Grace does not _trust_ me," she said lightly, grateful that her voice did not tremble. "I am only a lowly historian, here to chronicle his reign for my Emperor." Davos made a noise that might have been a chuckle.

"That isn't why you're here." Her smile froze on her face and then faded. "I'm not a worldly man, but I have traveled my fair share in my youth. I've never met a woman on YiTish official business, let alone one employed as a traveling historian." A rush of fear slithered its way down Lo Jun's spine, but Davos held up his right hand as she opened her mouth to make some excuse. "Truly, I don't care if you're a historian or not. All I care is that you intend no harm to Stannis or Shireen."

"I intend no harm," she protested, perhaps a bit more forcefully than she meant. _Then what do you mean to do with Emma Storm_? There was always the possibility she could use the girl as a way to sell secrets and save herself from Dragonstone, provided the so-called Spider compensated her in coin. For some reason, though, that idea seemed repugnant—but this would not be the first time she had done something terrible for self-preservation.

"Good, because I give you my word—no matter how fond I might be of you, I will have no regrets killing you to protect them, if I must." She gave him a weak smile, hoping her relief did not show.

"I would expect no less, Ser Davos." He nodded once in reply.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Lo Jun shivered slightly despite herself, the sweat from her anxiety at being discovered now cooling rapidly in the howling wind. She pulled her cloak tighter, tucking the far edge across her body in an effort to draw warmth from the rough wool.

"The Lady Melisandre is not here, I've heard."

"No," she said quietly. "She left shortly after you were imprisoned, and has not returned."

"Did Stannis say where she went?"

Lo Jun shook her head. "He has not spoken of her to me." Davos grunted.

"What gods do you pray to, Lo Jun?"

She was taken aback. Did it matter? Briefly she considered telling him she had converted to the Seven, but she did not believe it would make him trust her any more.

"None," she said finally. "If I pray, I pray to my ancestors." _And a fat lot of good they've done me so far_ , she thought bitterly. Davos frowned.

"No gods?"

"I believe men make their own destinies." It was as good of an explanation as she was willing to give. Davos already suspected her of lies, and she balked at the idea of giving him any more information about herself at this point.

Her explanation seemed to satisfy him, though.

"Had you heard of the Lord of Light before coming here?" She shook her head.

"No. There is a goddess in Yi Ti, the Maiden Made of Light, but none like the _Lord_ of Light. None who demand human sacrifices." She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"I am one man, Lo Jun." Davos sounded tired. "I may be Hand of the King, but Stannis places great weight in the Red Woman's words. Half the men follow her and are loyal to him only insofar as she continues to support him as their god's chosen one. Half of us are loyal to His Grace alone—for better or worse. If I am to be his Hand—if I am to truly be his rudder in the midst of the storm that surrounds us—I need more support."

"What do you want of me?" She was afraid to even ask.

He met her gaze again, intense. "Help me keep Stannis grounded. Help me keep him on the right path, away from the ruin that the Red Woman and her evil worship bring."

"Why would the king listen to me?" she scoffed, feeling a little hysterical. "I am no one important."

It stung her pride a bit that Davos merely shrugged in agreement. "No, you have no title and no place in our lands. But His Grace apparently listened to you when you suggested pardoning me. I do not know _why_ , or if he will ever listen to you again—but if he does, I want to know you will speak wisely." _As in, not as an advocate for the Red Woman_. She understood him clearly, even though she wished she didn't.

 _But I'm not supposed to stay here_ , she almost shouted helplessly. She was supposed to run and keep running until she could fade into obscurity, not embroil herself in yet another bloody political struggle where her own life was potentially at risk. Shireen's infectious laugh and Stannis' honorable solemnity stole into her thoughts, and her instinctive refusal faltered.

Davos' eyes bore into her own, making her feel very small. Lo Jun tore her gaze from his and looked back towards the towering keep, eyes climbing up and up until they finally settled on the Stone Drum. She looked out across the sea for a long, long moment, then back to the tower.

She released a frozen breath that she did not realize she was holding, and finally nodded at Davos.

He offered her his left hand, twisted thumb down so that she might grasp it with her right. After a moment, she returned his grip, meeting his eyes firmly.

Perhaps Dragonstone was as good a place to land as any.

She hoped she would not regret her decision.


	12. Chapter Eleven

Now that he had finally emerged from his self-inflicted exile, Stannis could see the true sorry state of his meager kingdom.

He had no money, which was nothing new. Dragonstone and the old Targaryen holdings were historically poor lands, with grudging soil and virtually no resources aside from the martial spirit that embodied some of the more southern sworn Houses. The Florents still contributed the lion's share of coin, with Colin Florent steadfastedly refusing to recognize Garlan Tyrell's claim to the House's lands despite the technical dispossession of Brightwater Keep. Despite his general dislike for House Florent, Stannis had to admit a certain grudging approval for the young knight's sense of duty—and his stubbornness.

He had too few men, which very nearly rendered his cause hopeless. Of the thousands he had sailed with to Blackwater Bay, only a little more than 1500 remained due to deaths and desertions. That his own isolation and apathy were probably to blame for a good number of desertions in the wake of his defeat was a guilt that gnawed at him. He had, it seemed, exhausted his avenues for raising an army—his bannermen could, or perhaps would, contribute no more. If only he could commit ghosts to battle.

He had a handful of ships—pitiful for the former Master of Ships under his brother's rule. Of the few ships that survived the conflagration of their last battle, most were in dire need of repair, and a number would probably have to be salvaged for parts. There was, thankfully, plenty of wood to use for construction or mending—several pirate ships had also been scuttled in his harbor, unable to limp back to whatever illicit ports they called home. His shipbuilders were eager to reconstruct their once-mighty navy, but he had to tell them to focus on repairs instead—his coffers could not accommodate a bigger fleet, not yet.

His wife still hated him and his in-laws still resented him. Against that, he weighed his daughter's love and the loyalty of those who served him. He still felt as if he was a ship caught in a tempest, but he was no longer entirely alone in facing the storm. He found himself relying on Davos more than he had imagined, particularly now that the man was well on his way to becoming literate. Stannis found the triangle of education entertaining—Lo Jun taught Shireen, who taught Davos, who seemed to be returning the favor of his freedom by taking the wayward foreigner under his wing and keeping her _mostly_ out of trouble.

Oddly enough, Stannis had not thought of the Red Woman in days. If she still lived, he almost hoped she would not return. In her absence, he found it easier to ignore her existence and the complications—moral, social, and religious—that followed her like faithful hounds. She was nightshade—beautiful but deadly, and he was not entirely sure he trusted in her apparently unshakeable conviction that he was Azor Ahai. Stannis still did not wholly believe in the gods, despite the magic that Melisandre wielded. Outwardly, he had faith because he had no other explanation, but it was not R'hllor to whom Stannis prayed late at night.

To his surprise, he found himself enjoying the time he spent with the YiTish historian. She still never spoke unless he addressed her directly, but her responses to his prompts and questions had grown noticeably more detailed—and blunt. She certainly had not returned to the same level of boldness she displayed during their last furious confrontation, but there was a particular sharpness to her observations that appealed to his no-nonsense personality. He realized he probably was giving her far more leeway to speak to him than he would have accepted from most others, but she was a peculiar compliment to Davos' own honest counsel. Between the two of them, Stannis could count on finding and solving the weaknesses of his commands as King. Lo Jun in particular had a useful but exceedingly aggravating habit of advocating for the opposite position, even when Stannis knew she did not believe her own words.

But now, his historian was late, and his Hand seemed to have vanished into thin air.

They were not with Shireen, whose face positively pleaded with him to rescue her from her embroidery lessons when he found her. They were not in Davos' study, where Lo Jun sometimes sat to write in the odd script of her language. They were not even in the kitchens, where his silent arrival made the cooks panic and drop baskets of grain as they rushed to curtsy at such an unprecedented visit.

Frustrated, Stannis finally strode into one of the lesser courtyards of the keep, where sacks filled with sand were set up so that his bored knights had something into which they could stick their swords. The king was about to command one of the terrified squires find Davos and the historian or be dismissed from service when the wooden exterior gate opened and a mounted Davos clattered in, followed by Lo Jun. The YiTish woman was on foot and—again—scandalously clad in breeches, boots, and a man's shirt. She was breathing hard but steadily, as if she had just finished a footrace.

Stannis did not know what to make of the scene. He looked from Lo Jun to Davos, then back to the woman. This was how rumors started. Davos was honorable and Stannis did not figure him one to take a woman to bed without wedding her first—but perhaps Davos had finally given in to the urges all men faced. The former smuggler did not seem to be tired, as Stannis might expect of a graying man who had just lain with a younger woman.

Or was he merely projecting his own multiple failures as a husband onto Davos? The thought only served to anger him, and he pushed it ruthlessly out of mind.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. Davos glanced at Lo Jun, whose cheeks were flush from exercise and the cold air. Her dark eyes sparkled, undaunted by his curtness.

"The lady requested that I, ah, help her become more acquainted with the island, Your Grace." His Hand shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, his expression a combination of amused and embarrassed. "We traveled only a few miles before returning."

"Did you kill your horse?"

It shocked Stannis when Lo Jun laughed, covering her mouth with one hand. Her guard was down and she seemed freer, as if some invisible shackles had momentarily loosened to allow uninhibited emotions. He'd never heard her laugh before.

"No, Your Grace," she told him. "I did not take a horse. I only insisted Ser Davos ride to spare his old legs." Davos made a pained noise, pretending to take offense at being called old. Stannis snorted in disbelief, eyeing his Hand coldly. He felt an unfamiliar stab of jealousy at the easy friendship that had developed between Davos and Lo Jun.

"And why did you not ride?" he asked, speaking slowly as if to a simpleton.

"I wished to exercise," she replied simply. The answer baffled him.

"Exercise?" He didn't bother to hide the incredulousness in his voice. Only men had need for physical fitness. What use did a woman have for exercise?

Lo Jun seemed to calm down slightly, her smile dimming into the more usual restrained expression she sometimes wore. "Do you not ever feel the need to just move, Your Grace?"

The very idea was ludicrous. Women were frail and delicate, more suited to the tasks that required them to stay in the home. There was nothing they would gain from running and brawling—no highborn lord wanted a stocky, muscled wife whose strength put her husband to shame.

But Lo Jun had crossed countless oceans on her own, as had Melisandre. Stannis could only guess what kind of strength _that_ feat might require. Never in a hundred years did he expect a _woman_ to be a traveling envoy of some foreign empire. For all her so-called 'exercise,' Lo Jun stood before him a slender figure, if decidedly unblessed with the usual indicators of fertility—her breasts were small, her hips too narrow. Stannis did not know what kind of lean muscle she possibly concealed under her long sleeves and skirts—or breeches—and he looked her up and down appraisingly.

The inappropriateness of musing on the historian's figure only struck him when she met his roving eyes with an unreadable expression, the faintest hint of pink stealing across her cheeks and nose. He tore his gaze away immediately to look anywhere but at her, silently repulsed by his unseemly behavior.

An idea occurred to him as he spotted the racks of practice swords that the younger squires used to duel each other.

Ladies did not learn the fighting arts. Those that did often met bitter ends for going against the gods' wishes—like Lyanna Stark, whose affinity for men's work was almost as legendary as her beauty and her terrible fate. But then again, Lo Jun was not a lady.

He glanced back at her.

"Have you ever held a sword?" Lo Jun shook her head. He selected a pair of wooden swords and tossed one to her. She fumbled for a moment then caught it, holding the hilt awkwardly as if the blade might come alive and bite her.

"No," he said, holding his sword up and wrapping his fingers around it slowly so that she could see the proper grip. "Like this." She imitated him better this time. He closed the distance between them and used the flat of the wooden blade to position her feet.

He showed her how to strike from the side and to block a swing that came from above. They ran through the motions slowly, the clack of their wooden swords echoing around the courtyard. He did not put too much force behind his attacks, but was somewhat surprised by the unwaveringly solid grip she displayed. Intrigued, he suddenly changed up their routine and came at her with an exaggerated horizontal slash, wondering how she would adapt to the new and unexpected turn of events.

She yelped and dropped the sword entirely, instead lashing out with her right hand to strike him in the chest with a flat palm just as her left caught and halted his sword arm by the elbow. It was like running into an enemy lance at a tournament jousting match. The strength and speed of her blow caught him off guard and he wheezed, wheeling away to catch his breath. Lo Jun remained rooted to her spot, her hands pressed against her nose and mouth and her eyes wide with horror.

"Perhaps we should save the sword for those better suited to it," he said finally, choking back a laugh. He handed his practice sword to Davos, who had already collected the historian's discarded weapon, and left them with a nod, smiling to himself.

Selyse was waiting for him in his chambers when he returned. His good mood vanished instantly, and for a moment he debated whether to simply command her to leave the room. But no, he was too honorable to treat his queen wife so callously without knowing what she wanted. It was uncharacteristic of her to dare come to him uninvited.

"Why are you teaching swordplay to this… barbarian?" His wife practically shook with anger, her face drawn and pale. His scowl darkened.

"Because it interests me."

"She is leading you astray." Selyse pressed her lips together in a thin, bloodless line. "First your daughter, now this—she is distracting you from your rightful position."

"Which is?" he snapped, hurling his gloves down onto the table. Selyse flinched at the sound of leather slapping hard against wood. He hated her in that moment—she was too weak, too frail, too sickly.

To her credit, Selyse lifted her chin high and fixed him with a baleful stare, one as regal as she could muster.

"You are Azor Ahai, the chosen one of the Lord of Light." Her tone was haughty and accusatory, as if he had forgotten. How could he forget? The Red Priestess whispered it constantly to him. "You must take control of the Seven Kingdoms-"

"With what?" he snarled at her, patience gone. "With _what_ , my lady? My army is scattered, my navy decimated. These poor lands and their poorer smallfolk barely give me enough coin to sustain this household, let alone finance an invasion. I struggle to command the respect of the recalcitrant lords who should rightfully be calling me King—they remember the Targaryens and wonder if they would fare better under Joffrey's rule, despite his illegitimacy. They wish for Renly instead of me. I have lost the best chance I could possibly have to take the Iron Throne—now I must sit here while my men lick their wounds and work to stave off rebellion before I can contemplate my next battleground."

His outburst had shocked Selyse into silence. He realized suddenly and with a pang of guilt that this was likely the most he had spoken to her since admitting his infidelity with the Red Woman. Ashamed, he turned away from her, furious with her and himself and everyone and everything around him.

"Go," he whispered. Selyse left hurriedly, and he wondered for a moment if she was in contact somehow with the Red Woman, wherever she had gone. He regretted losing his temper and revealing so much of his mind—no doubt that when she returned, the priestess would come to stroke his arm and tell him his victory was assured with twice the adulation and twice the sweetness. He gritted his teeth just thinking about it. Her god might have chosen him, but with each passing day Stannis wondered if the Lord of Light had simply decided to favor someone else. Melisandre's words were beginning to ring hollow.

Lo Jun's words echoed in his head. _Do you not ever feel the need to just move, Your Grace_? He'd brushed it off then as foreign nonsense, but there was no other explanation for the urge that struck him abruptly. He snatched up his gloves from the table and his cloak off the back of a chair, donning the garments violently as he stalked out of his chambers.

This time, it was easy to find Davos or Lo Jun. They had scarcely exited the courtyard where Stannis had left them, it seemed. His Hand was trying to show the historian how to correctly block the side attack she had botched using an invisible sword, and Lo Jun was frowning in apparent dismay. She blinked owlishly at Stannis as he loomed in the doorway.

"We're going riding," Stannis announced. It sounded petulant, which made him even angrier. Luckily neither Davos nor Lo Jun responded, instead simply following him as he marched purposefully to the stables.

The hostlers knew better than to speak to him in this mood. They saddled the horses efficiently and silently, passing him the reins without meeting his eyes. He led their little group furiously out of the gates, scattering the guards who stood watch.

They rode without speaking, moving at canter down the pocked dirt road that curved away from the keep. It took many long minutes before Stannis felt his white hot fury drain away, leaving behind a dull, hollow frustration. Every inch he traveled away from Dragonstone lifted a weight from his shoulders, until he finally reined his horse in atop the tall black cliffs that marked the edge of the island.

Davos and Lo Jun joined him moments later, and they sat watching the crashing waves for a moment.

"I want to get off this gods-forsaken island," Stannis mused finally.

"Your Grace?" Davos nudged his gelding alongside so that the wind would not carry Stannis' words away.

"I cannot stay trapped on Dragonstone any longer. Every minute I sit here doing nothing, I lose another chance at taking the Iron Throne. I have to do something or else I will remain the laughingstock of all the Seven Kingdoms." He bared his teeth in defiance at the sea and the Lannisters and his own cursed luck. "But I hardly have enough men to capture a common barn, let alone achieve some major victory."

Davos cleared his throat awkwardly. "Perhaps I can contact Salladhor Saan again to hire men and ships." Stannis grit his teeth.

"For a king to use mercenaries to capture his throne would be disgraceful." He had made his feelings on the matter perfectly clear to Davos before, or so he had thought.

Lo Jun spoke up suddenly. "You already hired men to attack King's Landing." Stannis scowled at the memory, and at her nerve in reminding him of it. He glared at her, and as usual she merely looked back at him impassively.

"Yes, and they fled after the battle went sour. They have no honor."

"A pirate ship saved your life," she reminded him. To that, he had no response. Lo Jun patted her mare's mane absently. "True believers will do anything for you, as long as it fits their belief. But belief is so difficult, Your Grace. What makes a man believe? What shatters his faith? It is much simpler with men who are bought with coin. You know where you stand with them. They will do anything as long as you pay their price, and outbid the others. They do not ask you to fulfill any dream or wish—just that you pay them, and that is that."

One day he would have to ask where she learned so much about human nature, and especially about hiring mercenaries.

"Where in the Seven Hells would I get the coin to hire sellswords?" He felt frustration welling up again, his knuckles white from the force with which he gripped the reins.

To his surprise, it was Davos who answered. "Braavos, Your Grace." Stannis turned to frown at his Hand, prompting the man to continue. "Surely you can obtain a loan from the Iron Bank."

Stannis stared at Davos, startled. "Where did you learn about loans?" he finally asked. Davos was lowborn, a man who hardly ever had money at all, let alone a use for large sums or lines of credit. Davos shifted in his saddle, no doubt aware that his insight was out of character for someone so, well, common.

"From Princess Shireen and Lo Jun, Your Grace," Davos answered, nodding slightly to the historian. Stannis looked sidelong at the woman, who merely ducked her head in response. Stannis grunted in amusement. He should have known.

"If I rely only on sellswords, I risk losing the only men in the Seven Kingdoms who currently support my claim. The Florents _are_ believers—I must satisfy their fascination with the Lord of Light or else they too will abandon me." He smiled bitterly. "And then I will be a king of mercenaries."

"Why not have both?" Lo Jun spoke as if it were a simple thing. "Hire sellswords and use them to rescue Brightwater Keep. House Florent will surely appreciate Your Grace defending their home, which will cement their allegiance to you."

Stannis smiled wryly. "Brightwater Keep is in the Reach, in the heart of Tyrell lands. Alekyne Florent is facing a doomed siege."

"What better place to secure a surprise victory? Your enemies are confident in success and will not expect it."

"You are one of the greatest generals in the Seven Kingdoms, Your Grace." The side of Stannis' mouth quirked up at the sincerity in Davos' voice. His Hand had unshakeable faith in his king, but Stannis was no longer so confident in himself. "Show the Lannisters and the Tyrells what mistake they've made in discounting you."

Stannis chewed his lower lip as he considered his options. Beneath him, his horse fidgeted, sensing his rider's tension. It was a great gamble to risk defending Brightwater Keep against Garlan Tyrell. But Robb Stark—the impudent boy that he was—was already keeping much of the Lannister army occupied, which left only the Tyrells to contend with in the Reach. And Stannis had already outlasted Garlan's father once.

"Ser Davos," he said finally, "Send word to the Iron Bank, requesting an audience. Do it quietly."

Davos and Lo Jun both broke into broad smiles, and the historian clapped her hands together once in a genuine display of excitement that shocked Stannis utterly. The king allowed himself a moment to bask in satisfaction at his decision before crushing the feeling. It would not do to get his hopes up prematurely.

"So, are you still bored with me, historian?" He finally offered her a small, one-sided smile in return.

"Perhaps I will not die of tedium after all, Your Grace." There was no mistaking the cheekiness in her voice.

"No, but you may die in battle." He cursed himself silently after speaking. Robert had always been annoyed that Stannis consistently ruined good moments by reminding everyone of dour realities.

" _Valar morghulis_ ," she simply said, shrugging as if the thought did not bother her in the least.

"You don't fear death?" he asked in surprise.

She smiled in response and tapped her horse's flanks, urging the beast into a trot that quickly turned to a flat out gallop. Woman and horse sped along the high cliff edge, her dark hair and the horse's mane streaming behind them in the cold, wet afternoon mist. Stannis' stomach dropped sharply as she threw her hands into the air like the spread wings of a bird, releasing the reins to steer her mount with only her knees.

But she did not fall, and the mare did not stumble.

"Have you ever seen anything so free?" Stannis asked, almost to himself. Beside him, Davos shook his head.

"No, Your Grace," the old smuggler said, only a trace of wonder in his voice. "Like an eagle, that woman."

Stannis did not reply.

* * *

 _A/N: francisvirus and Pop: thank you for the reviews!  
_

 _KioshiUshima: luckily there will be a bit more on that next chapter!_


	13. Chapter Twelve

Braavos smelled like fish.

It was the curse of a port town, really. While the morning catch that brought droves of buyers to the docks was tolerable, the heat from the sun invariably cooked the unsold product and rapidly accumulating piles of discarded fish guts. Thanks to the warmth and crowded buildings, the increasingly revolting stench hugged the ground like a heavy miasma, so thick it was almost tangible. The smell coated the inside of everyone's noses and mouths like sour honey. Those who worked the docks and the fish markets toiled seemingly oblivious to the foul odor, but most of the customers naturally grew increasingly curt in an effort to keep their exposure to a minimum.

Lo Jun stood on the deck of the _Rose Cipher_ , one voluminous green sleeve held up to her nose in an effort to block out the worst of the smell. She was grateful there was enough material on her traditional YiTish robes to bunch around her face in a makeshift mask—the few Baratheon bannermen who stood guard nearby looked positively ill. The fishy aroma hadn't seemed so bad when they arrived at the harbor the previous morning, but she supposed they hadn't actually spent enough time at the docks to truly appreciate the impact that poor ventilation would have on the dockside markets.

The king's ship had left quickly on their journey to Braavos, as if Stannis wanted to escape Dragonstone before some mysterious, invisible force wrapped its tentacles around him and prevented him from leaving. They took the _Cipher_ , the fastest ship in Stannis' fleet that was still floating, with only a minimal contingent of men handpicked by Davos, and flew no flag that announced their allegiance. Without a full crew or enough knights, drawing attention—especially from pirates or other unfriendly ships—would have been extremely unwise. The skeleton crew made for a mildly uncomfortable journey, since no servants or smallfolk accompanied them. Their austere sea existence did not seem to bother anyone, however, for which Lo Jun was grateful—Davos was clearly a man born to the hardship of a minimalist life at sea, and Stannis, well, Stannis was his normally ascetic self.

The king had been quiet and distracted the entire way. Lo Jun did not fault him—it would take some shrewd negotiation to persuade the Iron Bank that financing the Baratheon claim was a wise investment. Stannis did not have an entirely successful record of battles in the so-called War of Five Kings, after all. While he did not command her to attend to him during their voyage, Lo Jun occasionally checked on him to make sure he still breathed. Stannis spent most of his time in his cabin, furiously writing and discarding proposals for the Bank to examine. He ignored her, for the most part, even when she discretely set out some tea and stale biscuits in an effort to remind him that he still needed food to live.

It annoyed her a little that the task of caring for the king had somehow fallen onto her as the sole woman aboard the ship. Even Davos seemed to have largely left the responsibility for Stannis' care to her. Admittedly, the former smuggler was in his element here, conversing confidently with the ship's captain and the crew, checking ropes and lines and wood and whatever else kept them afloat. Despite her mild resentment that Davos apparently figured she could handle the burden of becoming Stannis' impromptu maidservant, Lo Jun enjoyed seeing the comfortable rapport he built with the crew, who had initially been wary of the Hand's unassuming nature. It helped that the men who accompanied them were loyal to Stannis as their king and not as the chosen one of the Lord of Light—they treated Davos with a friendly respect that put everyone but the preoccupied king himself at ease.

Ultimately, however, it annoyed Lo Jun far more that she actually _wanted_ to make sure Stannis was not dead of scurvy or a brain bleed from too much thinking. That did not mean she was willing to assume the role of doing his laundry or emptying out his bedpan, of course, and she deliberately avoided doing so.

To avoid the strange emotional attachment she seemed to have developed for the stern man, she took to sitting out of the way and meditating on the forecastle deck. Her presence unnerved the sailors, who made no secret of their superstition that women on ships made them sink. It was not worth her time to tell them of the many ships she'd been on that still apparently floated.

Instead, Lo Jun occupied her time by constructing a mental map from the pieces of the Dragonstone spy network that she had so far uncovered. As she suspected, Emma Stone was just one of a number of spies in the household. The girl Gwyn, another maid, and her not-so-secret paramour, Ser Parmen Caron, were both in the Spider's pockets. Neither had particularly good access to the key decision makers in Stannis' circle, but Parmen Caron had squired at some point in his youth for Alester Florent and was still in the latter man's good graces. The biggest threat to Stannis' secrets was a maid named Mysie who sometimes helped Delia, the head housekeeper, clean the king's rooms, but her contact with the Lord of Dragonstone was limited to whatever she could find in his no doubt plain rooms.

Lo Jun had to give Stannis credit for being such an impenetrable target. The man's solitary nature meant he trusted no one and had minimal servants—there were no occasional guests to his inner circle, not even a cupbearer to overhear his conversations with Davos.

Interestingly, Lo Jun had been unable to uncover any spies within the ranks of the converts to the Lord of Light. She doubted it was because of any difficulty impersonating a fanatic, and so the void there troubled her. Given the influence the Red Priestess notoriously wielded over Stannis, there was no way Varys had no interest in keeping tabs on her or her followers. Either the Red Priestess had her own network of spies to counter outside influence, or her powers extended somehow to keeping her insulated. Both possibilities made Lo Jun incredibly nervous—she was glad to be an ocean away from the shadowbinder.

As far as she could tell, the Spider's spies passed messages to King's Landing through a system of traders and merchants who routinely visited Dragonstone. It was the only sensible way to ensure secrecy—the servants could easily interact with outsiders by claiming to be on castle business, and the merchants would then take the messages with them when they left. Lo Jun was also certain the run-down brothel on Dragonstone also operated as a hub for messages, but since no one from _outside_ Dragonstone came to the island to visit its whores, there was not as much interaction to concern her there.

She was not terribly pleased to have to leave the island and her discoveries for a month, but duty called—a historian should witness history before writing about it. With Stannis gone, Lo Jun doubted there would be an abundance of news to pass on to the capital, anyway.

As excruciatingly dull as the journey to Braavos was, once their ship put into harbor everything passed in a dizzying blur of events. Lo Jun scarcely had a moment to tie the belt around her traditional YiTish dress when Davos came to collect her to accompany Stannis on his official presentation to the Iron Bank. She'd finished up in the litter that carried them with the help of a somewhat embarrassed Davos, who she'd pressured into holding a small mirror while she pinned her hair into the elaborate loops that were fashionable amongst YiTish palace elite. In truth, styling her hair in such a way would have been the scandal of the century were she still in her homeland—it was a decidedly _noble_ hairstyle, and lowly palace bureaucrats were not supposed to put on airs.

The audience with the Bank nearly went astray the minute they set foot in the great marble building. Whether the Bank intended to send a message or simply misjudged the time, Lo Jun did not know, but Stannis very nearly paced a groove into the floor with every hour they were kept waiting. Davos did his best to keep the king's temper in check, but even Lo Jun knew _that_ was a losing battle.

Finally, the heavy doors at the back of the room opened to admit the panel of bankers who would apparently hear Stannis' request. Lo Jun took a position behind both Stannis and Davos, standing as inconspicuously as possible by the large windows with her hands folded into her voluminous sleeves. She had no role here besides to simply observe—it was unusual enough that Stannis ordered her to come along at all, and she had dressed as finely as she could manage to give a good, _silent_ impression. But her presence was noted, and the red-bearded man in the center chair instantly fixed his sharp eyes on her.

"The God-Emperor backs Stannis Baratheon?" The banker sounded astonished. His words echoed in the cold room, accompanied by astonished murmurs from the other Bank representatives.

"No, my lord," Lo Jun said after a moment, hoping Stannis would stop grimacing so she could concentrate. It wasn't as if she _meant_ to capture the bankers' attention. "I do not represent the interests of the God-Emperor. I am merely a historian tasked with observing His Grace Stannis Baratheon in his quest to reclaim his throne."

"I did not know the Empire cared about Westerosi politics."

"The Empire craves knowledge, my lord," she responded. "All knowledge is useful, no matter how distant its applications seem." She wished the banker would stop questioning her—this was not _her_ request for money, and Stannis was being quite forgotten. She needed to return the attention to him. "But in truth, His Eminence would not have sent me had he seen no hope for King Stannis. Knowledge of losing kings is less useful after all."

The banker made a humming sound in apparent skepticism. "You believe Stannis Baratheon is a good investment?" His piercing stare did not waver, and Lo Jun resisted the urge to scowl. Her gut told her this man would be a hard sell under the best of circumstances, like the old YiTish palace quartermaster whose tight-fisted nature was the stuff of legends. He did not come predisposed to handing out easy loans—she pitied his wife being married to a miser, but doubtless it was a trait that made him a good banker.

"Yes. But he must make his presentation himself, my lords. With your leave." She bowed low and stayed there until Stannis finally spoke.

It did not surprise her in the least that the bankers were reluctant to loan money to the Baratheon cause. It did surprise her that Davos' impassioned plea appeared to sway their opinion. Lo Jun was skeptical despite her bias that the Braavosi men had any hope for Stannis' success, but she suspected there was some wisdom in lending money to more than one side in the struggle for the throne. War was a business, after all.

And so Lo Jun, wayward historian from Yi Ti, found herself shopping for mercenaries, backed by a loan from the Iron Bank of Braavos.

It was a mercy that Stannis did not think she knew enough of war to actually make any kind of decision. She wished his opinion of women's involvement in the fighting arts were low enough that she could have actually done something interesting with her time instead of taking notes on his meetings with the mercenary companies who came to bid for a contract. They now waited for representatives from the last of the companies to arrive, and while Stannis and Davos remained in the captain's cabin, she had gone out onto the ship's deck in the hopes of finding fresh air—a hope now dashed, thanks to the fishmongers.

Snatches of fresh conversation floated up from the bannermen stationed below on docks, and Lo Jun steeled herself for another hour of tedious transcription of Stannis' negotiations. She was curious despite herself as to who the newcomers were—men from a distant, foreign company apparently called the Red Horde, whoever they were.

The guards escorting the sellswords obscured her view until the group reached the deck, at which point Lo Jun promptly forgot how to breathe.

She stared in shock at the scarred fighter who emerged from behind the Baratheon bannermen. He looked very different from when they'd last parted company—older, with sun-darkened skin, a thinner face, and graying hair shorn close to his scalp—but this man was unmistakably Lo Shan, one of her many first cousins. The man who accompanied him was unknown to her, but there was no doubt he was also YiTish.

Her knees buckled slightly. She cast a wild look over her shoulder at the cabin where Stannis waited—if she shouted for help, would he come to her rescue? Would his bannermen prevent her from being killed or worse, abducted back to Yi Ti? Reeling from the surprise, the impossibility that anyone in the Empire would know she would be at this exact spot in Braavos right this minute did not occur to her.

Once Lo Shan caught sight of her, he too stopped abruptly. For a moment, she thought she saw fear on his face, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by a hard, unfamiliar expression.

"So it wasn't true," he finally said in YiTish. "You do still live."

She forced herself to speak, her mother tongue coming strangely at first. "Why are you here, cousin?" Fear made her sound ruder than she intended.

"I came to bid on a contract with a Westerosi king. Was it a ruse?" He gestured to the bannermen beside him, who were growing increasingly nervous at the strange language and unexpectedly tense atmosphere. "If it was, it was a good one. I suppose you learned deceit well in the Emperor's court."

She blinked in confusion. "Why would I trick you?" Wasn't _he_ here to arrest _her_?

He sneered at her, and she almost gasped at the contempt in his look. Lo Shan had never treated her with disdain before—as children, they'd tussled in the courtyard of her family's home, surrounded by chicken and pigs. He had always been like a blood brother to her.

"For desertion." He made it sound as if it were obvious. "Since you're still alive, I assume news of your treason and execution were meant to test our loyalty." He smiled bitterly. "As you can see, turns out we weren't very loyal after all."

"Lo Shan, I'm not— I-I didn't—" Part of her mind distantly acknowledged this could be true—Lo Shan had joined the Emperor's cavalry before her twelfth birthday, and had long aspired to make a name for himself as a warrior. He had appeared wearing clothes most certainly not approved by YiTish military uniform standards, but it could have been a disguise. Still, if he was not here on behalf of the Emperor, then he was a deserter—marked for death, just like she was.

"If your men are going to kill us, we're not planning on making it easy." Her cousin spoke matter-of-factly. His companion nodded belligerently, his wolfish grin displaying several teeth that had been ostentatiously capped with gold. Lo Jun couldn't stop herself from looking down at their waists, where their empty scabbards were tied. She knew Lo Shan could likely defend himself with fists and feet alone if forced to fight, but it was a fool's errand given the Baratheon men were more numerous and still armed with blades.

"Lo Jun?"

She turned as if in a dream. Stannis and Davos had emerged from the captain's cabin into the glaring sunlight. While the Hand seemed concerned, Stannis was watching Lo Jun with a strange expression that she could not read. She felt her cheeks redden uncontrollably, and she glanced helplessly back at Lo Shan as she struggled to remember the Common Tongue.

Lo Shan studied her for a long moment. She could see him thinking—even when they were young, he was always the more deliberate one.

"This is Stannis Baratheon," she told her cousin quietly. There was nothing more she could say. Lo Shan clearly no longer trusted her, but she was the only translator aboard the ship. She questioned whether he would accept her words, or if he would still believe she lied to somehow entrap him. There was no way she could tell him the truth, not now—admitting she was no longer employed by the God-Emperor would likely spell doom for her here.

To her relief, Lo Shan dipped into a low, courteous bow, as did his companion.

"Your Grace," her cousin spoke in Common, bewildering her anew, "I am Lo Shan of the Red Horde. My companion is Cao An, my second-in-command. We heard you seek additional swords for your cause. We come to bid."

Wordlessly, Stannis nodded, then turned and reentered the cabin. Davos beckoned the YiTish men inside.

"Lo Shan." Her cousin paused before the cabin door and looked back at her with the same cool indifference he displayed towards the Westerosi strangers. It cut her deeply. "My father?" She spoke in YiTish, not caring if it seemed suspicious to the Seven Kingdoms men.

Lo Shan's face hardened and he turned away without answering. Lo Jun's shoulders crumpled slightly as she struggled to remain calm.

Her father was dead, and likely the rest of her family too. Wretchedly, she knew in her heart that it was all her fault.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when Davos placed his good hand on her shoulder.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said lightly. His eyes were kind, and she wondered how much he saw or understood. "Why don't you stay out here, for now. I'll put my newfound writing skills to the test in your place."

She did not trust herself to speak, but gave him a small, grateful nod. Davos patted her shoulder once and closed the cabin door behind him, leaving her alone once more on the deck of the ship.

Perhaps she should have taken the first boat out of Dragonstone when she had the chance.

* * *

 _A/N: Wow, sorry this took so long. Definitely did not expect so much work in the last two weeks. Anyway, hopefully back on schedule now!_


	14. Chapter Thirteen

"Would you trust men you did not know if they offered you excellent service for less coin, or would you trust men you knew who would charge you extra?"

From his seat at the leftmost edge of Stannis' desk, Davos looked up, startled by his king's question. Stannis had been staring at nothing in particular for many minutes, silent as the candles that provided evening light burned down to the last nubs of wax.

"Your Grace?" the smuggler asked, clearly unsure of how to answer. Stannis finally looked at his Hand, who put his quill down and assumed a thoughtful expression. "I assume you're talking about mercenaries?" The king nodded curtly.

"Well, Your Grace, in fairness to the YiTish, it isn't like you actually know the Westerosi mercenaries, either," Davos said mildly. Stannis exhaled sharply through his nose in a tiny laugh.

"But I know who they are as a people."

Davos made a sound in disagreement, massaging his cramped writing fingers with the stumps on his maimed hand. "Yes, I suppose you know they are exiles, and deserters. And adventurers, there are those too. But also criminals, and others who fled responsibility and even the Crown's justice."

"At least I would know their hearts, though. What they value, what could motivate them to fight—besides coin, of course."

"Aye," Davos nodded amiably, "But you also already know they would sooner save their skins than face punishment or responsibility. Not exactly the most trustworthy men. What if they get back to the Seven Kingdoms and decide they would fare better by betraying you and pleading for pardon with the Lannisters?"

"And how do I know the Red Horde would not do the same?" Stannis demanded, annoyed. Davos was beginning to sound more and more like Lo Jun each day, always presenting the opposing view and poking holes in his reasoning. Sometimes it seemed as if Robert was the wiser brother for assembling a Small Council and promptly disregarding everything they said—having advisors who criticized his plans and decisions was incredibly irritating.

As if he could sense the unfavorable, unspoken comparison to the historian, Davos shrugged. "Why not ask Lo Jun? She spoke with them when they came aboard the ship—perhaps she knows more about who they are."

"Or she might lead me astray," Stannis mused. "They could be working together."

"You don't trust her?" When Stannis did not answer, Davos shrugged again. "You brought her along and listened to her so far. I figured you valued her opinion at least. If you think she will lie to you, then leave her in Braavos and hire, say, the Stormcrows, even if they do cost a good deal more. But for what it's worth, I can't for the life of me think why the YiTish would want to invade the Seven Kingdoms using you—begging your pardon, Your Grace. I just imagine it would be far easier to, well, land boats in Blackwater Bay, beholden to no king." Davos scratched his beard idly, settling back in his chair. "Of course, Your Grace, I'm just an old smuggler," he said modestly, "I admit I don't know much about deception and politics."

As he mulled Davos' words over, Stannis watched the candle flames, lost in the tiny flickering. Melisandre had shown him images in fire before, and he wished now—not for the first time—that he did not always have to rely on her for such visions. What answers, what guidance, would be revealed to him? Axell Florent had once boasted that the Lord of Light showed him he would follow Stannis to victory, but Stannis knew the man was drunk at the time and showing off for the Red Woman. Perhaps it was genuine, though, and Stannis never saw anything on his own because deep down, he kept no gods. Maybe the faith he lacked held him back—but he was not blessed with the ability to easily believe.

Stannis reached forth and methodically extinguished the dying flames on each candle with his thumb and forefinger. He sat back heavily in the obnoxiously unbalanced chair that had been his throne for the day, and fixed Davos with a dour look.

"Extra expense is a luxury we cannot afford. Hire the YiTish. And find that pirate friend of yours, Salladhor Saan, if he is indeed in Braavos. We need his ships."

Davos nodded his acknowledgement, barely visible in the watery light that still trickled in through the one window in the captain's cabin. He gathered the parchment and writing implements up and left with a short, unhurried bow. Stannis watched impassively, absently drumming the fingers of his right hand on the table.

Objectively, he knew the YiTish sellswords offered the best value for his coin. They had the most horses and the most men—their leader advertised them as light cavalry and some infantry, both things Stannis needed to replenish the men he had lost at Blackwater Bay. Their price was low, but not so low as to seem inconceivable or unreliable. And the mercenary captain had impressed Stannis with his quiet authority, speaking with none of the bravado that the other sellswords had displayed when recounting their exploits and capabilities. The man seemed trustworthy—a rare thing for someone in such an unscrupulous position, particularly given Stannis' predisposition to disliking soldiers for hire.

But still, something about Davos' suggestion to talk to the historian about the YiTish mercenaries nagged at Stannis. When they had first spotted Lo Jun standing with the sellswords, she'd seemed unbalanced in a way Stannis had never before seen. She'd quite obviously _blushed_ when she caught sight of the King and the Hand, which was a reaction he didn't think the unflappable woman was even capable of. At first, he'd assumed it was simply the shock of seeing someone from her home country that made her lose her typical composure, but the more he dwelled on the matter, the less sure he became. Stannis was not an emotional man, but he was neither blind nor stupid—Lo Jun's interaction with the foreigners was _different_ somehow, and Stannis was not sure whether it was natural caution or something else entirely that bothered him so.

Not to mention, the mercenary captain had called himself Lo Shan, and the match between his family name and Lo Jun's made Stannis all the more curious, if not wary. An unexplainable flash of jealousy swept through him as the thought occurred that Lo Jun could be married to the sellsword. Stannis told himself he'd always suspected there was more to the historian's story than she let on—was she even a historian? Or just a runaway from an unwanted marriage? What were the odds that her jilted husband would find her in Braavos, of all places, aboard a Baratheon ship from the Seven Kingdoms?

But Davos was right about one thing at least. The theory of the mercenaries being some kind of ruse was too far-fetched to make sense. No one in the Seven Kingdoms knew of his travel to Braavos, and certainly no message could have reached the city before he did—the risk of the YiTish working for Varys or that unctuous bastard Littlefinger was almost zero, and Stannis did not think Tywin Lannister cared enough about anything besides his legacy to even contemplate hiring foreign soldiers to stab Stannis in the back.

He could have been content to sit and brood in the growing darkness of the captain's cabin, spinning thoughts repeatedly around in his mind until he convinced himself of their truth even without any solid proof. In another time, perhaps he would have. But Stannis kept returning to the mystery of Lo Jun's interaction with Lo Shan, and he grew more restless by lingering on the incident. She would never volunteer any information about herself, so unless he asked, all he had to rely on was his own imagination.

Strangely, the idea of simply stewing in his own misgivings about Lo Jun bothered him more than it perhaps normally would have. Stannis was not completely oblivious to his own faults—Renly had mocked him more than once for being a jealous, suspicious man prone to assuming he was being slighted rather than inquire further—but he hadn't seen any real need to change thus far in life. His distrust served him well until recently, after all—he suspected everyone because it turned out they were, indeed, mostly all traitors to his claim. But something simply did not sit right with the thought of turning a cold shoulder to the historian based only on conjecture.

For her counsel, and for her company—odd as they might be—she deserved better.

He stepped out onto the deck and caught sight of the historian's small frame standing alone at the aft railing, enveloped in a gray cloak that almost seemed to blend into the evening fog at the edges. She did not turn as he approached, the sound of his boots muffled by the thick air, and so he joined her in staring down at the gray harbor waters.

"I've decided to hire the Red Horde." At that, her face turned ever so slightly towards him, although she still said nothing. "Best price for the service."

"That is wise." Her voice was uncharacteristically subdued. As he looked sidelong at her, Stannis could see she had changed out of the strange YiTish gown that she had been wearing earlier, and was once again dressed in men's clothing. Lo Jun must have felt his eyes on her—she dug her fingers into the wool and drew the cloak tighter around her body like a cocoon. Silence followed—an uncomfortable pause filled only by the distant lapping of waves against the hull of the ship. Stannis frowned.

"Do you know them?" At that, she looked up, but still did not face him. His scowl deepened in annoyance. Did she think he would simply let the issue go? "You share a family name with the mercenary captain."

As Lo Jun took a deep breath and held it, Stannis braced himself for a validation of his suspicions. He was not sure if he was more disappointed with the possibility of losing a tutor for Shireen or of losing his own historian—or if in fact it was the very idea of Lo Jun being married that distressed him.

He was not ready to acknowledge the latter, if it were true. That was a road leading nowhere productive.

"Lo Shan is my cousin."

He was not quite prepared for that answer. Part of him had been hoping she would assure him it was just a coincidence—that Lo was a common name, like Waters or Snow—while another part had braced for the worst. He was not expecting something in between. Stannis blinked at Lo Jun, unsure if he'd heard her correctly and not trusting himself to assume.

"Your… cousin."

"My father's brother's third son." It took him a moment to trace that out in his mind.

"Why did not you mention this before?" he demanded. "What is your _cousin_ doing here, now?" All of the reasoning he'd done with himself before flew out the window, and he grasped her shoulder roughly to force her into facing him directly. She spun round easily, without resistance, like a piece of driftwood caught in a strong tide. "Did you plan this?"

She met his eyes as fearlessly as always, but the lines around her eyes and mouth betrayed a tiredness he did not expect. She looked defeated, and the hunched shoulders of her rounded posture made her seem even tinier than usual.

"I planned nothing," she said, although in his self-righteousness he did not want to believe it. "I did not know Lo Shan was a mercenary. I do not know why he is in Braavos, specifically, or when he came. Or how. As for why I did not mention it, well—would you willingly admit your blood relative leads a band of mercenaries?"

Having never had that dubious honor, Stannis was reluctant to agree. But Lo Jun's answer made sense, in a way—Stannis had always disliked his brothers, and was ever loath to admit the relationship between them unless he was forced to do so. If he was embarrassed by Robert, the boor, or Renly, the arrogant child, then it was not beyond the pale that Lo Jun would be upset by her cousin and his questionably moral occupation.

He clenched his teeth, searching her face for a sign—any sign—of dishonesty. As usual, there was nothing—she was either truthful, or too good a liar for him to detect. He would have to decide for himself whether to trust her.

His grip tightened on her shoulder. "If I find you've betrayed me in some way by working with your countrymen, I will not show mercy," he warned. A ghost of a smile touched her lips.

"That is also wise, Your Grace."

There was a certain relief Stannis felt in Lo Jun's answers, but he kept the scowl that knit his eyebrows together. They stared at each other for a moment until Lo Jun slowly—pointedly—turned her eyes towards his hand on her shoulder. He dropped his hold on her faster than if she'd been made of coals from the fire, his palms suddenly uncomfortably clammy. She merely smiled again, faintly, and returned to her original position looking out across the harbor.

He was preparing to abandon her to her thoughts when she spoke again.

"When we were children, Lo Shan used to set the chickens loose an hour before I woke up so that I would have to catch them all before feeding them." Stannis paused, unsure of what to make of her words. "I cried after he had done it for the sixth day in a row, in front of my father. I was punished for embarrassing my father and for complaining how it was unfair. When he heard about it, Shan-da-ge fed the chickens for two months straight without me asking."

"You were close," Stannis observed. Something in his chest tightened unpleasantly as Lo Jun chuckled quietly.

"I did not think I would see him again, after I left. He always boasted he would be a famous soldier one day, while I would end up a spinster. It seems he was somewhat better at predictions than I believed."

"Is that something you aspired to? Marriage?" The question was out before Stannis could even stop himself. It was highly inappropriate to ask such a deeply personal question—taken the wrong way, it could even imply he was interested in courting her. He felt blood rush to his cheeks, but Lo Jun did not even glance towards him. Instead, she ran her hands back and forth over the wooden railing, kneading it in thought.

"No," she said simply, after a long moment. "My family is not amongst the desirable names in Yi Ti, and marriages for girls are intended to pull the family up the social ladder. There were no suitors interested."

"Not even Lo Shan?" She shot him an amused look.

"Cousin marriage is common, yes, but my older sister already married Lo Shan's eldest brother. My uncle also called me a… the translation is 'snake-woman,' in Common—it means a woman who would devour headfirst any man unlucky enough to wed her."

Stannis snorted. Lo Jun gave him an appraising glance out of the corner of her eye.

"You have never encountered a snake-woman?"

"Perhaps that's a concern for weaker men," he retorted, but it sounded like an empty boast to his own ears. Thoughts of the Red Woman rose unbidden in his mind, and he pushed them away firmly. He was not being eaten by a woman—any woman—either literally or figuratively.

"A pity then that my father never met anyone like you." She smiled at him and his breath hitched—he cleared his throat to cover the discomfort that unexpectedly broadsided him. His reaction was just relief that Lo Jun did not seem to take offense to his ill-mannered question, he told himself, nothing more.

Stannis stepped away from the railing and was about to leave when something tugged at him to turn back. Lo Jun was watching him, her face shrouded in the growing darkness.

"Don't spend all night out on the deck," he advised gruffly. "I need you tomorrow."

He could just barely see the corners of her mouth lift briefly before she bowed slightly.

"Good night, Your Grace."

As he strode away, her soft words seemed to follow him like dandelions in a summer breeze.

* * *

 _A/N: Well, "back to regular updates" turned out rather optimistic of me. Sorry all! ;_;_


	15. Chapter Fourteen

It was strange how returning to Dragonstone seemed almost like a homecoming for Lo Jun. The familiar castle walls that rose above the bleak landscape greeted her like an old friend—a literal island of stability amidst the tossing sea. After the last weeks of unwelcome excitement, Lo Jun was looking forward to a return to the normalcy that she had constructed for herself in the Baratheon household. No more ghosts from the past to chase her here—besides the ones who sailed with them, of course.

In all honesty, she did miss the bustle of the city and the true anonymity that a large and diverse populated offered. But for all Braavos was technically located in Essos, it was disappointingly similar to what she had seen of the Seven Kingdoms. Not that that was a bad thing, necessarily, but her enthusiasm for the Free City was a little dampened by the fact that it was less exotic—or familiar?—than she'd hoped.

The firmness of the dock beneath her feet made her feel slightly queasy in contrast to the constant rocking she'd experienced aboard the _Rose Cipher_. Phantom swells threatened to pitch her headfirst into the water, and Lo Jun clutched vainly at one of the wooden posts for stability while she fought her stomach back down. A quick glance around confirmed no one was paying her much mind, much to her relief—Stannis and Davos had already gone up ahead, while the men busied themselves unloading what little cargo they'd carried on their return trip.

As she made her way unsteadily up the sloping path to the keep, Lo Jun looked out across the waves, one hand shielding her eyes from the glare of the noon sun. The ships Stannis had hired to ferry his new men across the sea dotted the horizon in neat, even intervals, anchored until the king decided otherwise. The YiTish mercenaries still floated there along with the pirates and other questionably lawful sailors who had been purchased, waiting on orders. Lo Jun had been amused to see that one of the ships in the ragtag armada was the _Three Hump Dog_ , the very ship she had sailed with from Volantis.

Like a coward, she was grateful Lo Shan had not accompanied Stannis aboard the _Rose Cipher_ , and that Stannis ordered the YiTish to remain at sea in order to conceal their presence from any curious eyes. In fact, Lo Jun actively tried to ignore the fact that her cousin led Stannis' new army—the less she thought about Lo Shan, the easier it was to forget their dreadful reunion.

She did not want to face her cousin, or the thought that her memories of him were just that—memories—and that the life he had led since their paths diverged had shaped him into a different man than the boy she once chased around town. The boy had been mischief and kindness concealed beneath a quiet, serious demeanor—it broke her heart to think the affection Lo Shan once had for her was replaced by cold disdain.

Luckily, Davos and Stannis—surprisingly—kept her busy during the return voyage from Braavos. While the wind certainly favored them enough to cut the journey short by several days, it seemed to Lo Jun that the time passed even faster. The king was far less preoccupied now that their clandestine trip to the Iron Bank proved to be a success. The trio had spent hours poring over maps of the Seven Kingdoms, the men discussing battle plans as she silently observed and committed the information to paper and memory. Lo Jun was surprised by how small a population the realm actually had compared to the size of its land—Yi Ti was a large empire as well, but it was filled to bursting with people.

She did not know what to make of Stannis. Ever since he confronted her in Braavos about her cousin, Lo Jun noticed that he stood closer and spoke more familiarly with her than before. While he did not go so far as to actually touch her again, it did not escape her that he no longer held himself quite so stiffly in her presence. Against her better judgment, Lo Jun found herself reciprocating by smiling more and even sneaking glances at the stern man like some foolish maiden. Although she knew she would have to cease once they returned, selfishly she let herself give in to the temptations offered by his subtle attentions—even if he did not consciously intend them. Indulging herself in a bit of temporary fantasy harmed no one.

Davos, too, certainly picked up on everyone's lifted spirits—he was twice as jovial, even offering to teach Lo Jun how to throw dice with the other sailors. Upon hearing that offer, Stannis had commented that gambling was an activity better suited for smallfolk, but Davos merely gave Lo Jun a sly wink and taught her anyway once the king retired for the evening.

Lost in her thoughts, Lo Jun had scarcely set foot in the castle when a blur of silk petticoats ambushed her. Shireen clung to Lo Jun like a burr, her face buried in her tutor's cloak while words tumbled out of the girl's mouth in an incoherent waterfall. Gently and with a small laugh, the YiTish woman disentangled her pupil and held her out at arm's length. Whatever happiness she felt at so enthusiastic a welcome quickly died, however, when Shireen merely stared back with wide, wild eyes and worry written plain as day on her face.

"I am happy to see you, my lady, but you are sad." Tears instantly filled the girl's eyes and she broke free to wrap frail arms around Lo Jun once more. Shireen whimpered something inaudible, muffled by the thick fabric of Lo Jun's clothing. "Shireen," Lo Jun said quietly, and at that, the girl finally peeled herself off her tutor.

"The Red Priestess has returned," she said, her voice trembling. "Mother and Uncle Axell have been talking about more burnings."

Something cold and unpleasant settled itself heavily in the pit of Lo Jun's stomach. She was amazed her hands did not shake as she placed them on Shireen's shoulders.

"Burnings?" she asked neutrally, hearing her voice echo distantly in her own ears. The princess nodded miserably.

"To secure Father's success—I don't want it to be you!"

Lo Jun felt a hysterical laugh bubble up. She let herself smile in the hopes it was comforting, rather than betray the fear coursing through her veins.

"Why would you think that?" Shireen looked miserable.

"Because Mother has been telling the Red Priestess about your bad influence on me. She's wrong—it's all wrong and I don't want to see it anymore, I don't want to be part of it! I hate the Red Priestess!"

Lo Jun shushed the girl, using a sleeve to wipe the damp from Shireen's pale cheeks.

"I must see your father. He is the king—we will trust him to be wise, no?" Her false cheer must have sounded genuine, because Shireen nodded in agreement and stepped away with a bit of steel in her spine. "You should return to your rooms, Shireen—I will come visit before the day is done."

The princess left reluctantly, taking with her the last of Lo Jun's bravado. Each step forward now seemed heavier than the last. Lo Jun wondered if this was how condemned men felt on their walk to the gallows—the dread itself was enough to make her feel dead already. The few servants she passed moved quickly with their eyes averted, and she imagined she could feel a new, alien malevolence seeping from the stones that surrounded her. Dragonstone had always been cold and damp—now it was oppressive, the walls closing in unfamiliarly.

Near the top of the Stone Drum, Lo Jun tarried to let a group of guards escorting a dark haired youth tramp noisily down the stairs. The lad looked at her curiously and she returned the favor—to her surprise, he looked very vaguely like Stannis, although it could have been simply a trick of the light. To her, many of the Westerosi men and women still looked alike, especially with so brief an opportunity to compare.

Her hand was very nearly on the door to the Chamber of the Painted Table when it swung open, revealing a striking woman dressed in a crimson gown that matched the deep red of her hair. Shocked, Lo Jun automatically bowed low to the priestess, who caught her chin on the way down in a surprisingly firm grip and forced the YiTish woman back upright. Lo Jun's skin warmed dangerously at the Red Woman's touch, as if the priestess was a flame that had come too close.

They stared at each other for half a heartbeat before the Lady Melisandre released Lo Jun's face. The priestess made a humming sound.

"The Lord has you in His hand," she said with interest, in a voice that spoke of smoke and dark, secret places. Lo Jun shivered. "He knows you have turned your face from Him."

Was it a threat? A promise? Confused and afraid, Lo Jun did not respond. The priestess smiled knowingly and left, pulling her heavy skirts up off the floor as she glided gracefully away.

It took her several deep breaths to still her shaking body, and several more before she was certain no demons made of shadow were going to assault her. Lo Jun very nearly bolted like a panicked deer into the Chamber of the Painted Table, following the comfort promised by the voices she had heard earlier within.

Instead, she was greeted by hostility from both Stannis and Davos. From the set of their shoulders, both men were furious—not with her, she realized with some very mild relief, but with each other. Lo Jun slowed her steps into a cautious approach, wary eyes moving from Stannis to Davos and back again. The silence in the room was crushing.

"Your Grace," Davos finally began, his tone strained. Stannis scowled ominously.

"It is necessary."

" _Necessary_?" Davos shook his head in disbelief. "There is nothing necessary about burning a child at the stake."

Lo Jun glanced back at the door through which she had come, pity for the boy she had passed overwhelming the fear that still lingered close to her bones. It seemed Shireen's prediction about more burnings was accurate, at least. But who was the unfortunate youth? Lo Jun did not think he looked like much of a criminal, especially not one who deserved death.

"I did not ask for your opinion, Ser Davos," snapped Stannis. Davos drew himself up with a deep breath.

"You released me for my honest counsel, Your Grace, and it's my duty to give it to you even if it isn't in my own best interests. I'm not a godly man, but I can say there are no gods worth serving who demand their followers kill their own _family_."

"The boy isn't _family_." Contempt dripped from the last word. "Why should I spare the son of some tavern slut Robert bedded one drunken night? The priestess says king's blood has power—power I'll need if I hope to win the Iron Throne." Stannis turned sharply on his heel and stalked towards the head of the Painted Table, passing Lo Jun without a second glance. She met Davos' eyes as the Hand followed, a kicked hound still trailing his master.

"He's your nephew," Davos pressed. "Legitimate or not, he's your own blood."

"So was Renly." Stannis leaned on the table and looked down at his own hands.

"Renly wronged you." The Hand was trying to prevail with reason, but the king had clearly closed his ears. "He raised an army—stole your bannermen. This boy has done you no wrong. He's an innocent." Stannis bared his teeth in a silent snarl at the other man.

"How many boys live in Westeros? How many girls, how many women? The darkness will devour them all, she says; the night that never ends. Unless _I_ triumph. I never asked for this, no more than I asked to be king. We do not choose our destiny. We must do our duty, no? Great or small, we must do our duty." Stannis sounded almost sarcastic, as if this was a speech he had heard before and did not truly believe even as he parroted it now. He was quiet for a moment. "What's one bastard boy against a kingdom?"

Davos did not answer right away, and watched his king with a defeated expression. "What would you have me do, Your Grace?"

"Obey my orders," Stannis retorted harshly. "Or return to the dungeons." Davos bowed.

"Your Grace," he said shortly, and Lo Jun almost winced at the disappointment in his voice. As Davos passed her on his way out, she heard him mutter low so that only she could hear, "One step forward; two steps back."

Stannis did not acknowledge her where she stood, rooted to her spot in uncertainty. Was she supposed to stay or leave as well? Lo Jun did not know if the king expected her to remain with him, but she did not entirely wish to risk another encounter with the Red Priestess—at least, not right this instant. Instead, she made her way tentatively to the spot along the wall where she usually knelt, intending to take some refuge out of the way until her courage came back.

"Do you think me a cruel man, historian?"

Startled, she straightened back up and looked at him, but Stannis was staring stonily down at the carved map of the Seven Kingdoms.

"I think you are a man focused on one of his many duties," she said carefully, worrying a stray thread that peeked out from one of her sleeves. Stannis pursed his lips derisively.

"That's not an answer."

She was not sure he actually _wanted_ a straight answer—at least, not if the answer was an affirmative. But he asked, and she was accustomed to letting caution slip after spending so much time with him in a confined space, even if it was unwise. She was no Davos, but Stannis would not be well served by sycophants who allowed him to walk unobstructed down a self-destructive path.

"Yes, Stannis," she said heavily. "I believe you are being cruel." His eyes finally found her, angry and hurt.

"Cruel for doing my duty?" he rasped. The thread came loose in her hands.

"There are many kinds of duty, Your Grace. Duty imposed by your station is only one, and it is the lesser. Duty to family, for example—that is a much more important responsibility to fulfill. Empires rise and fall like the cycle of seasons, but you only have one life to give at a time for your kin."

"This is not Yi Ti," he reminded her, and she could tell he was annoyed. "A king's duty is more important than his duty to any bastard child he may be related to."

"This boy may not be a prince, but he is your _blood_. If you kill him, how far will you go? Will you kill those you truly love, too, if this god demanded it?"

"There's a difference between killing and sacrifice," Stannis snapped. "And I'll go as far as I have to in order to save the Seven Kingdoms from the coming darkness."

"There is no difference to the dead," Lo Jun answered calmly. What comfort was it to the victim whether he was killed or sacrificed? Death was death—and she sincerely doubted it mattered to a healthy and unwilling youth.

Stannis pushed himself away from the table and crossed the floor to the balcony that overlooked the Narrow Sea, his hands clasped behind him. She resisted the urge to walk after him.

"Would you burn me?" What an arrogant question. She felt ashamed for even thinking it, let alone asking. It was presumptuous beyond reason to think the king held any real affection for her—for all the shy closeness they had shared during the journey back from Braavos, he was still one of the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms, and she was, well, no one important. But she had to hear it from him, even if she already knew the answer.

Stannis did not meet her eyes.

"If it meant a sure victory," he said hoarsely, after a pause, "I would."

His words hung in the air like a terrible cloud. Strangely, all Lo Jun felt was sorrow—not for herself, but for him.

"You live a very lonely life," she told him quietly, kindly. "For that, I am sorry." There was nothing else to say. She bowed slightly to Stannis' back. Even if he did not dismiss her directly, she no longer wanted to remain in the room with him.

"You called me Stannis," he said over his shoulder. Her heart leapt into her throat—she had hoped her mistake would go unnoticed. Stupid of her to be careless, no matter how heated her words had been. Lo Jun swallowed hard, cursing her suddenly dry mouth.

"My apologies, Your Grace," she whispered. Stannis' jaw bunched. He did not speak again, so she slipped out the door without another word and left him truly alone.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you for the reviews, everyone! And for KioshiUshima - accidental flirting is best flirting. The romance in this story is totally an awkward 1980s high school nerd rom-com, except with more death and less Anthony Michael Hall._


	16. Chapter Fifteen

"Absolute folly." Alester Florent was shaking his head firmly, a haughty scowl darkening his proud features. "The Redwynes will crush us in an instant."

Stannis sat askew at the head of the Painted Table, one arm resting against the flat surface. He said nothing, idly turning a carved wooden figurine over in his fingers. This was supposed to be a war council, a time to plan for action—instead, it had turned into an ironic plea from his in-laws to do nothing.

"Ser Alester is right, my king," Melisandre murmured to his immediate left, placing a gentle hand on Stannis' arm. He tensed, fighting the urge to pull away from her grip. "Rescuing Brightwater Keep is a fool's errand. Your most loyal subjects and fighting men are already here with you—there is no need to risk everything on something that does not matter at all."

Stannis watched as Alester Florent's frown deepened, and swallowed a harsh laugh. As devoted as the Florents were to the Lord of Light, it seemed Alester did not entirely appreciate being told his home was essentially worthless. Even Axell Florent, sitting next to his infinitely more polished brother, seemed to be struggling with his faith in the priestess on the one hand, and his family loyalties on the other. Stannis felt little more than contempt for the Florents and their religious fervor, and this argument over whether it was even worthwhile to ride to the aid of Brightwater Keep only reinforced his low opinion.

"There are loyal men remaining at Brightwater Keep," Stannis said. He pointed at Alester. "Including your son—or has he finally fled to Oldtown with his tail between his legs after hearing that Garlan Tyrell plans to march for his head?"

Alester opened his mouth to protest at that insult, but Melisandre murmured something that settled the man back in his chair. She fixed Stannis with a critical look that he ignored, grinding his teeth in annoyance.

He hated how eagerly he had responded to the Red Woman's return. She had left him at his most vulnerable, when he needed her strength and her power. Worse, she'd even spurned him before leaving. He had admitted to her in a moment of weakness that he wanted her, the first woman he actually felt desire for in a very long time. He had held her close and whispered it, desperately hoping she did not simply view him as a king to serve or a mere tool for achieving whatever visions or monsters she sought to bring to life. But she had turned away from him, pity on her face for the man reduced to begging for her favor.

Stannis had felt used, unclean, and most of all, completely foolish. But when she appeared before him upon his arrival home, his resentment vanished, and he was back to acting like an adolescent boy with his first crush—he wanted to please her, to make her forget how pathetic he had acted. If she understood, she showed no sign of it, treating him with the same cool devotion as always. It drove him mad, even as he struggled to deny her power over him.

Unfortunately, she'd also brought with her Robert's bastard, driving yet another wedge between him and his closest companions as of late. Davos, who sat silently to Stannis' right, made no secret of how abhorrent he thought it would be to sacrifice the bastard boy, or of his complete disappointment in Stannis for even considering the idea. Stannis knew how devoted his Hand was—Davos owed everything to his king and would no doubt continue to serve loyally no matter what Stannis' ultimate decision was, but it disturbed Stannis to know Davos would likely not view him with the same affection as before should the boy be sacrificed.

His reaction to Lo Jun's disapproval was far more complicated. At first, Stannis had been furious with her and her refusal to consider the greater good. He still begrudged her for her hardheaded insistence on placing family first—especially a _bastard_ —but her parting words had sliced into him like a metal scourge. She had called him lonely, and her voice had been like a sorrowful caress that caused him to flinch away on reflex.

A tiny voice inside him cried out that he did not really _want_ to be lonely, any more than he wanted the immeasurably heavy burden of being the king and savior of the Seven Kingdoms. He'd only wrapped himself in solitude because he trusted no one but himself—everyone else had betrayed him at some point or another, beginning with the gods, and even his own brothers. Being King only amplified his distance from others—after all, as he'd once told Catelyn Stark, kings did not have friends, only subjects and enemies. He didn't know how _not_ to be isolated. It surprised him that Lo Jun cared enough about him personally to have any opinion on his wellbeing—it shocked him even more to realize he had grown fond enough of her that he did not want to upset her intentionally.

He only realized he was staring down the length of the Painted Table at the historian when she glanced up from the parchment she was writing on, meeting his gaze with the same blank, detached expression she'd been wearing for the past two days. It was as if she had once again donned whatever impassive mask she wore when she first arrived at Dragonstone, much to Stannis' inexplicable dismay. He did not always appreciate the naked honesty Lo Jun had begun to display around him, but her formality now felt like punishment rather than a compliment to his kingliness.

"Lord Alester is simply concerned for your victory, my king," Melisandre was saying, her voice a soothing blanket that settled cozily around the table.

"I've no intention of meeting the Redwynes head on." It took more effort than he wanted to admit to tear his eyes away from Lo Jun. "But I need a distraction to occupy Tywin Lannister and his Tyrell lapdogs. The ships are a ruse."

"You intend to _march_ across the Stormlands? If we even make it that far without meeting opposition, what then?" Alester Florent sounded as if he were forcing his words out around a very large object stuck in his throat. "Should we take Brightwater Keep, will we remain there until the Tyrells come back with an army twice as strong and lay siege to the walls?"

Stannis' lips curled in a sneer. "Stopping at Brightwater Keep would be useless. I intend to take back the Houses in the Reach that bent the knee to the Lannisters after Blackwater Bay."

Alester blew air sharply out his long nose in disbelief. Axell, too, looked uncertain, although he apparently had more loyalty to his king than his older brother and did not make his hesitations so obvious.

"What does the Lord of Light say?" It was Axell who asked, which did not surprise Stannis. He had long suspected Alester was less of a fanatic and more of an opportunist when it came to the Red Priestess' religion, but the man hid it well.

Melisandre stood. Four pairs of male eyes followed her, entranced, as she strode to the nearest brazier, which burned merrily despite the late afternoon sunlight still streaming in.

"This War of Five Kings means nothing," she droned, watching the flames as they danced. "The true war lies to the north, my king." Stannis growled as Alester's hand hit the table a little too hard in triumph.

"And this is the first you mention it?" Stannis demanded. "What is there in the north, besides Robb Stark and his bannermen?" Melisandre looked at him patiently over her shoulder, as if he were a child who asked why the sky was blue.

"All I know is the lions and roses will freeze and crumble in the coming darkness." Stannis snorted.

"Until your visions can direct me to a more specific threat, we sail for Storm's End by the end of the week." He glowered at Alester and Axell in turn, impressing his will upon them. "I will show those lords who bent the knee to the Lannisters their mistake."

The Florents left together, Alester muttering something to his younger brother, who simply shook his head. Stannis watched them go with disdain. _Let them talk_ , he thought sourly. Alester Florent could moan about it all he wanted, but it wasn't as if his family had any other option except to follow Stannis, attainted as they were. The king stood slowly, giving his knees a moment to adjust.

Davos cleared his throat.

"Your Grace, with your leave I'll begin preparing for the journey." It was the first he spoke that afternoon. Stannis paused for a moment then gave his Hand a curt nod. With one last pointed glance at the Red Woman, Davos followed the Florents out the door.

Melisandre approached him, an appraising look on her beautiful face.

"Why do you doubt the Lord of Light, my king?" There it was, the seductive tone that had so quickly ensnared him when she first arrived on his island. Stannis clenched his jaw, willing himself to ignore his body's response to her voice.

"I cannot sit here in this tower and wait for omens," he finally grated out. "If the Lord of Light truly wishes me to head north, he'll find a way to tell me directly."

The priestess hummed in disapproval. "That is not the way He works." She slid a graceful hand across his shoulders, leaving a trail of shameful desire in its wake. He closed his eyes.

"That is my decision." She pulled back from him, clearly frustrated with the lack of any reaction. Normally he would allow himself to relax into her touch, but his wounded pride could not allow it, not now. Stannis pushed himself away from the Painted Table—and away from her. "If you worry so much about my success, go use the bastard boy to work your magic."

Melisandre frowned, her delicate brows knitting together in the middle of her forehead. She sighed.

"The night is dark and full of terrors," the priestess intoned proudly, and left in an elegant swish of her ruby skirts.

Stannis looked at Lo Jun, who was watching him with an icy expression that could have alone ushered in the Long Night.

"You disagree?" he asked wearily.

"So sorry; it is not my place, Your Grace," she said neutrally. Daintily, the historian stoppered her inkwell and lifted her parchment with careful hands, blowing gently to dry the ink. Stannis scowled. This was not the first time he had asked her a direct question since their disagreement over Robert's bastard, and he was tired of hearing the same polite excuse.

"I asked you your opinion. Out with it, woman." Her eyes flashed.

"The night is dark and full of terrors—maybe for _children_. What else do you fear, monsters under your bed?" He blinked in open surprise. He had not been expecting so vehement a response—or one so unpleasant.

"You don't fear the darkness?" Even to his own ears it sounded defensive.

"Nothing in life is to be feared; it is only to be understood." Lo Jun stood, pulling at the ill fitting peasant's dress she wore again—the brown one he hated. As she began to stack her things, he crossed the room to head her off.

"Why are you angry with me?" It was ridiculous that he even bothered to ask. What did a king care for the personal feelings of his subjects? He should have simply ignored the historian entirely, and left her to cope with her own emotions.

But he didn't want to. He was not stupid—it was obvious she was still upset over his plans for the bastard, and his last careless order to Melisandre most likely only increased Lo Jun's anger. Stannis should not have let it trouble him, and yet it did.

Lo Jun did not attempt to pass him as he stood in her way. She seemed to be working out something to say, and so he waited.

"Do you believe in the Lord of Light?" she asked. Her tone verged on the impolite; it was almost a demand. He bristled.

"I do what I must to gain the support I need to fulfill my duty as the one _true_ King."

She ignored the warning in his voice. "Why would a vengeful, jealous god choose a nonbeliever as his champion?"

Now she _was_ challenging him directly. Anger made him grind his teeth. She stared back at him impassively, her arms folded across her chest in a decidedly unfriendly fashion. The golden light of the braziers behind her created a halo around her head and shoulders, giving her an ethereal, almost otherworldly look.

Her composure only infuriated him further.

"You don't think I'm the Chosen One?"

Despite his righteous indignation, he was taken aback as Lo Jun seemed to deflate.

"I do not know," she said quietly. "I know nothing of gods and mysteries. You may be chosen—you may not. I am angry with you for not believing in yourself, Your Grace, not only because of the boy—his name is Gendry, if you did not know."

He did not know. He did not _want_ to know. There was a reason the smallfolk did not name the animals they slaughtered for food and for market.

"You have suffered one great defeat in a long life of victorious battles," Lo Jun continued, unaware of the minor upset she had just caused him. "That is fewer losses than most generals have ever experienced. And yet because of this one loss, you insist you need help from a god. Tell me, where was this god when you were winning battles before? You did not always need his help—why do you doubt yourself now?"

Stannis was at a loss for words. How could he explain the Red Priestess' promises, the visions she had shown him in the fires? How could he ignore the existential dread that filled him when she showed him the future where he did not act; the monstrous fate that awaited the Seven Kingdoms without his victory? He was chosen because he alone had the strength to do what was necessary for the good of the kingdom. The Lord of Light would give him the power he needed to accomplish his destiny; he disregarded Melisandre's warnings at his own peril.

Or was he relying on a faith he lacked to excuse his own mistakes?

When it became clear he would not reply, Lo Jun shook her head sadly.

"I believe in making your own luck," she told him. "Not relying on the whims of gods to favor you or not. I do not understand why you feel you must have this Lord of Light on your side, especially when you do not believe as Axell Florent, for example, believes.

"I believe in you because of _you_ , Your Grace, not because I think the Lord of Light favors you. Your lack of confidence is a disservice to your abilities."

She lifted her small bundle of notes and writing implements from the table, but he did not move from her path to the door. Lo Jun planted herself before him and threw herself into what seemed like an exasperated bow, remaining bent at the waist when Stannis did nothing.

As if in a dream, he reached forth and touched his fingertips lightly to the bare skin beneath her chin.

It took the scantest of pressure before gradually, cautiously, the woman straightened. She seemed hesitant to meet his gaze, but there was nothing timid about the glint in her dark eyes when she finally matched him stare for stare.

"It would be best if I left now, Your Grace," she breathed, and whatever enchantment it was that ensnared them both shattered into countless fragments. He dropped his hand from her face as she stepped around his paralyzed form, her small steps carrying her all too quickly from the room.

Stannis forced cold air into his lungs, trying to marshal his scattered thoughts. He had never been skilled with women, much to the amusement of both his brothers. What was he to make of Lo Jun's answer? Her words aside, what message was there in the last look she had given him—the kind of look he had seen a certain Dayne girl give poor Ned Stark many years ago.

Foolish. It would be a waste of time to search for some meaning in nothing but a look.

 _No_ , he told himself, fighting free of the strange exhilaration that had clouded his mind. It meant nothing at all.

* * *

 _A/N: As usual, thanks to everyone for the favs, follows, and reviews!_

 _KioshiUshima: Ugh I **saw** and I was like FINE so she's not totally useless. So I decided Melly will have some more interesting things to do in this story too, because she's too fun not to use as one of those morally ambiguous characters we're not sure if we love or hate, haha._

 _Rhekan: No worries there-the YiTish definitely brought some new toys to the Seven Kingdoms!_


	17. Chapter Sixteen

The rain that tumbled from the heavens was thick and insistent, a steady deluge that threatened to drown Dragonstone and its residents if the raging sea did not take them first. Due to the onslaught, most of the smallfolk and all of the nobles had remained indoors for the past two days, miserable in the cold and wet and growing increasingly irritated with each other in forced close quarters.

The exception was the solitary tower that housed Shireen Baratheon, whose sweetness was a refuge from the snappish attitudes that infected her father's household as a result of the lousy weather. Her happiness was an effective balm for more than just Lo Jun, who gladly used the princess' lessons as a means of escaping the tension that seemed to infuse every other corner of the keep. Davos, too, had dropped by more frequently than usual as well, making excuses for his visits that grew increasingly silly until even Shireen was giggling at their absurdity. Lo Jun had to finally tell him that she would be forced to give him assignments if he continued to distract the princess—a threat that backfired spectacularly when he sat down in a chair that was several sizes too small and urged her to continue.

The historian now perched beneath Shireen's window and stared absently out at the gray skies, her pupil preoccupied with a composition on her choice of Seven Kingdoms history. Lo Jun's free time was spent in a distracted sort of haze—she was not entirely sure _what_ she thought about, but much of it had an embarrassing amount to do with Stannis. She alternated between anger with him and herself, exhilaration at the memory of his touch on her face, and fear that she had acted a total fool. There had been no time or opportunity since their last encounter to get a feel for the king's thoughts on the matter, let alone to apologize. Stannis was engrossed with planning for his upcoming military maneuvers and shadowed almost constantly by the Red Woman, which left little room for anyone else.

Subconsciously, Lo Jun rubbed the spot where his fingers had brushed her skin. She had never been shy around men—remaining virtuous was largely a just hindrance to her, and she did not bother with it—but surely it was folly to expect the king of all people would display an interest in her. Kings, especially proud kings like Stannis certainly was, did not stoop to desire common women like her. Of course, it would not have been the first time in history such a thing happened, but Stannis did not strike Lo Jun as the type of man prone to dalliances. He took duty seriously—too seriously, in some respects—and she fully expected this would hold true for his duty to his wife, as unpleasant a relationship as they had.

But still.

Lost in her ruminations, Lo Jun jumped in fright when a knock at Shireen's door brought her crashing back to reality. Two maids entered and curtseyed low to the princess.

"Milady, it's time for the midday meal," announced one maid, and Shireen sighed sadly at the interruption to her work. As her keepers ushered her out the door, Shireen waved at Lo Jun, who gave the princess a smile and a little bow. The historian's stomach growled at the mention of food—she had not felt much like eating when she first woke, not with the stress of the past days gnawing away at her insides, but she needed _something_ to sustain her. Lo Jun lingered a moment to place the stopper back onto Shireen's bottle of ink to prevent it from drying out, then made her own way down to the kitchens.

The head cook greeted her with a cross grunt, clearly already displeased by some unrelated problem. Knowing better than to interrupt the other woman's violent dough kneading, Lo Jun sidled as inconspicuously as possible into the room, heading for one of the long tables where the household servants sat for meals.

At one end she spied Emma Storm and another maid, Gwyn, their heads bent together as they exchanged hushed whispers. Lo Jun was immediately curious. Rumors about Stannis' impending expedition around the southernmost reaches of the Seven Kingdoms had begun to fly almost as soon as the orders left his mouth. In an effort to preserve secrecy, the king had told only Axell and Alester Florent his true intentions, besides Davos, the Red Priestess, and Lo Jun, of course. They were all commanded to remain silent on the matter, and as far as Lo Jun could tell, the plan to disembark at Storm's End remained within that small circle. But the maids who now gossiped furtively in an isolated corner of the kitchens were two Lo Jun had been carefully watching—spies for the so-called Spider—and it would be wise to pay attention when they acted out of the ordinary.

Her sharp eyes caught Gwyn's attempt at sleight of hand as the older maid palmed something small and yellow and slid it casually to Emma. It seemed to be a roll of parchment, but Emma pocketed it too quickly for Lo Jun to spot anything else.

"—Storm's End," she heard Gwyn say, and her heart sank even as she gave herself a smug pat on the back for a good instinct. "The fleet is a diversion—"

It was Emma who spotted Lo Jun first, causing Gwyn to stop midsentence. Emma smiled, but it was not the friendliest smile—just a polite expression that Lo Jun chose to deliberately misinterpret as an invitation to sit. The maids exchanged a look.

"Hello Emma, Gwyn," said Lo Jun cheerfully. "Have I missed the midday meal already?"

"Ah, no," said Emma awkwardly, "There's some stew still left in the cauldron by the fire."

"That is good news. We need some with this weather." Lo Jun smiled brightly and rubbed her hands together vigorously. Gwyn leaned forward.

"Speaking of good news," Gwyn said slyly, and Lo Jun turned her guileless expression on the maid. "Does Stannis really intend to sail to Brightwater Keep with Selyse _and_ Shireen in tow?"

Lo Jun feigned uncertainty. Gwyn was much bolder than Emma in trying to pry information from the king's historian. Leaving Stannis' family on Dragonstone would make the island an even riper target for attack—the chance to capture his wife and only child would certainly be an attractive lure. But while Lo Jun was sure the princess could adjust to life on the march, she was not entirely convinced Selyse would enjoy being deprived of the stable comforts of home. Would it be better to suggest the women were to stay behind and encourage an assault on Dragonstone, or to remove that incentive?

"I do not believe His Grace has decided," she told Gwyn with a shrug. "It would be very difficult for the princess to be at sea for so long, after all." Gwyn frowned.

"So the fleet is really sailing to the Reach?"

"Of course," Lo Jun replied. "What other option would there be?"

"Stannis could march," piped up Emma, but she recoiled slightly as Gwyn shot her a glare. "What do you think, Jun?" Lo Jun shook her head.

"His Grace hired sellsails and pirates, and you cannot sail a boat on a prairie," she said jovially. The girls gave her poor joke an obligatory chuckle and she almost laughed at their discomfort. Gwyn stood, brushing crumbs from her skirts.

"Well, we have to go, right Emma?" At that, Emma clambered to her feet as well.

"Oh yes, sorry. I almost forgot the, um… right. We can't talk right now, we really must attend some business for Mistress Delia." As the maids walked off, Emma cast an anxious glance back over her shoulder at Lo Jun, who, still smiling disarmingly, merely watched them go.

When she was finally alone, Lo Jun deliberated silently as she spooned stew into a bowl and sat back down at the table to eat. There were virtues to keeping a known spy ring in place. It was easy to monitor and always convenient to have an identified method for sowing misinformation amongst enemies. Better the familiar demons than those unknown, after all. But at a certain point, the presence of spies became a liability—like now, when secret plans had somehow been revealed and were in danger of being passed on to unfriendly hands. It was best to treat spy rings like miniature trees—the threat would continue growing unless pruned back and controlled.

Clearly it was about time for a pruning.

Night fell and Lo Jun dressed in the breeches and shirt she preferred over the cumbersome skirts she had been wearing. There was an empty storage room across the hall from the maids' quarters that would provide a perfect observation point—it took only an insignificant jiggle to pick the lock before Lo Jun slipped inside, one hand held over her nose and mouth to filter out the dust lest she cough.

She positioned the door so that it was open only the slightest amount, just enough to admit a sliver of light through which she could see the maids' door with one eye. She sat comfortably with her legs folded beneath her, wrapped her gray cloak around her for warmth, and waited.

It did not take long before her vigil paid off. Emma emerged from the room she shared with the others, her heavy cloak and boots suggesting she intended to brave the storm still raging outside. The girl scurried down the corridor after looking both ways for anyone watching—Lo Jun waited before easing the door completely open and following.

She trailed the girl as Emma hurried from the keep, heading for the path to the harbor that wound along the cliffs. It was the quickest route but the most precarious, particularly in this weather—the dirt had all turned to mud and the rocks in the path were slippery and treacherous. Lo Jun closed the distance when Emma began to falter, the maid skidding awkwardly as she repeatedly lost her footing.

There was a shortcut across a jumble of rubble that Lo Jun opted to take in an effort to head the maid off. The historian hissed as her left hand came away from the sharp rocks in a smear of blood. She cursed the rain and the miserable darkness—this was the worst kind of night for clandestine adventures, where it was all too easy to have a possibly fatal accident. The knowledge that her body would only be discovered once the storm broke only made things worse.

Emma did not see Lo Jun until the older woman was standing mere feet in front of her in the path. The maid stopped short, blinking away the rain as it fell into her eyes.

"Where did you come from?" the girl shouted, her voice pitched high in panic.

"I know, Emma," Lo Jun shouted back, straining to be heard above the furious winds. "It is time to give in—come back to the keep, and we will talk about your work for the Spider."

The burst of fear in Emma's face was visible even in the nighttime gloom. She attempted to dart past Lo Jun along the cliff side, but the YiTish woman turned and lifted an arm to prevent the maid from passing.

Lo Jun saw the flash of metal as lightning rent the sky. Emma's swing was wild and untrained and all the more dangerous because of it, but there was no time or space to leap out of the way. With her left arm Lo Jun reached up to stall the descending blade, her forearm meeting Emma's wrist just as Lo Jun planted her other fist on the girl's nose. Lo Jun could feel the cartilage in Emma's face give way as blood burst forth, and the younger girl cried out in alarm.

Rain and blood made their skin slick, but the shock of being hit loosened Emma's grip on the knife—and turned her attention from attacking to defending. It took only a tug for Lo Jun to roll the knife out of Emma's hand and into her own. As Lo Jun pulled it back towards her body, the blade caught on the fabric of Emma's clothing and sliced effortlessly through, sending the contents of her apron pocket tumbling to the ground.

Lo Jun drew her knee up and uncurled her leg powerfully, driving her foot deep into the girl's stomach. Emma's body folded easily, unaccustomed to violence, and as her leg extended fully Lo Jun _pushed_ , sending the girl's crumpled form flying backwards. Lo Jun caught a last brief glimpse of the shocked look on the maid's face before Emma Storm plummeted to the frothing waves below, her last shriek swallowed by the howling tempest.

Breathing heavily but steadily, Lo Jun bent to sort through the objects that had dropped during the struggle. Amidst the random kitchen items was a familiar tube of weatherproofed parchment, sealed tightly with wax. She examined it critically for a moment—while the maids naturally had access to writing materials, the wax on this message was an impressively fine quality. As she turned it over in her hands, a fox head encircled by flowers stared up at her, and Lo Jun grimaced. The sigil of House Florent was one she'd learned early in her dungeon "lessons" with Shireen.

She looked back up at the steep black walls of the keep, squinting against the rain. If Emma had been on the verge of passing a message on to her spymaster, then it would only be a matter of time before someone else attempted to complete the task when she failed to return. Lo Jun had a good idea of who that someone else would be—there were no closer co-conspirators amongst the Spider's Dragonstone spy ring than Emma and Gwyn. It would be best to forestall the problem before it arose.

Lo Jun let herself in through the same door she and Emma had used to exit the keep, glad that it remained unguarded. Pausing for a moment, she removed her boots and stockings, making a face at the sudden shock of bare skin against the freezing stone floor. Her boots were too noisy for sneaking around the keep at night, and as wet as her stockings were they would be no help either unless Lo Jun wanted to imitate the squelching sounds of walking through a marsh. She stashed her footwear in a discreet corner near the kitchens before beginning her prowl.

If she did not know better, Lo Jun would have thought the keep was deserted by all but ghosts as she made her way deliberately down each hall. Not a single soul stirred, not even the cats or mice that ordinarily chased each other every night. She was beginning to despair of encountering anyone at all when a tiny glow rounded the far corner.

There was Gwyn, dressed in dark wool with a hood over her auburn hair, carrying a single candle to light her way as she tiptoed through Dragonstone. Given the direction she was coming from, Lo Jun guessed the maid was finally leaving Ser Parmen Caron's embrace.

The YiTish woman pressed herself harder into the walls as the young man in question suddenly appeared, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder. Lo Jun felt a pang of sympathy for him—after his cousin's death at the Battle of Blackwater, he was technically the heir to his family's lands, but his youth and tendency to hesitate made him an unpopular successor. Apparently chasing maids' skirts was the only notable thing he'd done since squiring for Alester Florent years prior.

"Gwyn, that message," Parmen was saying, worry a dark cloud that marred his handsome features. The maid shushed him with a hand to his lips even as Lo Jun's ears perked up in interest.

"I delivered it, love," she replied, "It's done, just like milord asked." Parmen looked miserable.

"I was hoping… oh, never mind."

"You did the right thing," Gwyn reassured him. "More war is bad for everyone. Just think, you've helped save lives!" The young knight seemed unconvinced, but the quiet hallway was neither the time nor the place to argue.

As Parmen plodded sadly away, Lo Jun eyed Gwyn. The mystery of how two minor servants had come to possess a secret message from House Florent suddenly made sense. Gwyn was already obviously privy somehow to Stannis' plans, which she had earlier passed on to Emma. Emma herself had no remarkable access to the king or his inner circle. But Parmen Caron, Gwyn's lover, had served Alester Florent in the past—and likely did so now as well. Any messages that Alester sought to pass on to interested parties in King's Landing could easily make their way from his former squire to the squire's lover to anyone else. There was no other explanation for how the Florent sigil appeared on the roll of parchment burning a hole in Lo Jun's pocket.

Lo Jun lingered in the shadows, a small, still statue easily missed. The feeble light cast by Gwyn's little candle barely illuminated the path before her, let alone exposed any silent watchers. As the maid passed, oblivious, Lo Jun detached herself from the darkness and followed, flowing effortlessly across the cold floor thanks to her bare—now dirty—feet, trailing rainwater and mud that dripped from her soaked form.

Gwyn's path led her to the top of a steep set of smooth stone stairs that provided a popular route of access between the servants' quarters and the rest of the keep. It was there that Lo Jun broke into a jog, bursting from the shadows to overtake the maid. Startled by the noise of Lo Jun's bare feet suddenly slapping against the floor, Gwyn whipped around, her eyes wide as she held the candle up to see what came for her.

Lo Jun struck the maid hard in the throat with the rigid second knuckles of her hand, balled into a flat half-fist for a more exact blow. The girl jerked back in pain with a desperate choking sound, her hands flying reflexively to her neck, but Lo Jun did not hesitate.

Moving forward, she swept one leg behind Gwyn, just at the edge of the stairs, and in one smooth motion pushed, causing the already unbalanced girl's feet to slip out from underneath her as she stumbled. There was no time for a scream—as soon as she could draw a breath Gwyn's head broke against the unforgiving stone, and the maid tumbled bonelessly down the rest of the steps.

Lo Jun padded noiselessly down the stairs until she could crouch just above Gwyn's motionless form, and extended a hand to locate the pulse in the maid's neck. Head wounds bled more than most would expect, and she did not want to trust the amount of blood alone to verify whether her work was done.

She waited for several breaths, but there was no heartbeat. Satisfied, the woman straightened and stepped carefully around the growing puddle of blood.

She needed to collect her boots.

* * *

 _A/N: What's GoT without a little casual murder, amirite?  
_

 _KioshiUshima: Tension with Stannis is hilariously fun, because I feel like he short-circuits around women in a "wat do" kind of way._

 _Rhekan: Thank you!_

 _ValkyrianSalad: Thanks! The One True King deserves less of a shit hand of cards._


	18. Chapter Seventeen

For the second time in an entirely too short amount of time, Stannis Baratheon was considering sentencing Davos Seaworth to death.

He glared in fury at his Hand, who, as usual, stared stubbornly back. Behind Stannis the Red Priestess paced back and forth, her own anger rolling off her in waves. The collective tension in the Chamber of the Painted Table was probably suffocating for the guards who had escorted Davos in—they stood like statues, as if convinced they could escape the brewing wrath if they only could manage to remain completely unnoticed.

"You let the boy go." It was not a question. Melisandre had come to him earlier with her accusations, but Stannis had waited to summon Davos until every inch of the castle was searched. Only when he was sure Robert's bastard— _Gendry, his name is Gendry_ —was gone did Stannis finally admit that the former smuggler probably had something to do with it. The complete lack of surprise on Davos' face when confronted by his king spoke volumes more than any verbal confession, and cut Stannis deeper than he cared to admit. He knew his Hand disapproved of the Red Woman's plan to sacrifice the boy, but he had not expected Davos to so openly betray his trust.

"I did." Davos nodded curtly in response, his hands clasped modestly behind his back.

"Your mercy saved the boy's life," Melisandre swept regally towards the Hand, her eyes almost spitting the very flames she worshipped. "You feel good about that?"

"Aye, I do." As usual, Davos was neither impressed nor cowed by her ire. Stannis imagined the Hand's indifference only further incensed the priestess.

" _One_ innocent—how many tens of thousands have you doomed?" From the pointed, defiant look he gave her, Davos found that to be a fair bargain.

"Why?" Stannis rasped. It would do no good to hear the reason, not at this point, but he wanted to know anyway. Davos' disloyalty confused and dismayed him—an upset only magnified by the sinking feeling that whatever power ran through the boy's veins was now likely forever lost, along with the victory Melisandre always promised. The thought that sacrificing the boy, no matter how terrible a decision, could have been _the one thing_ that secured his rightful place on the Iron Throne haunted Stannis. It was a small price to pay for the safety of the realm, one that hardly anyone would notice—why couldn't Davos understand that?

"It would be wrong to kill him," Davos admonished, and Stannis ground his teeth in annoyance. He'd heard this all before, and it remained just as unconvincing now as it did then. "There has got to be another way."

"Is that all?" the king demanded. They'd argued in circles for days now, ever since the Red Priestess' return, and always reached the same impasse. Stannis vowed to himself that next time he would pick a more agreeable Hand.

"Yes, Your Grace." From the set of his shoulders, Davos knew what was coming. Stannis was not sure whether that was a comfort, but there was only one answer for treason, especially since Davos had been warned before.

"Very well—Ser Davos Seaworth, I, Stannis of the House Baratheon, first of my name, rightful King of the Andals and the First Men, do hereby sentence you to—"

A commotion at the door interrupted him, and all eyes swung to see Ser Rolland Storm stamp in, his normally terrifying features made noticeably worse by discomfiture. For his part, however, Stannis was more alarmed to see Lo Jun step out from behind the large, bearded knight, shackled at the wrists.

For one shocked moment, no one spoke or moved. Then, Ser Rolland cleared his throat.

"Your Grace," the man boomed, clearly uncomfortably aware that he had disturbed something important, "I beg pardon, but this matter could not wait."

Short of the fleet burning or the Lannisters breaking down the front gates, there was absolutely nothing Stannis could think of that would justify such a statement. He had always thought of Rolland Storm as one of the few truly loyal men to his cause, but it was hard not to question just then whether Rolland might have perhaps suffered serious head trauma at the Battle of Blackwater. Stannis' stony gaze shifted to Lo Jun, whose brow was furrowed in clear frustration and disappointment. She would not meet his eyes. His worry increased.

"This woman is a spy, Your Grace," Rolland was saying. Stannis scowled.

"We've been through this before—" he began to retort, but stopped short when the other man shook his head insistently.

"I witnessed her last night following a spy for the false king's Master of Whispers," Rolland's eyes flickered nervously to the guards in the room, "The maid—the one we spoke of previously. They went out in the storm, and the maid has not returned."

Stannis blinked, unsure he heard correctly. Ser Rolland shifted anxiously from foot to foot as silence filled the room; the only sound the rustle of Melisandre's dress as she moved to get a better look at Lo Jun. The priestess did not seem convinced, the lovely frown on her face one that suggested confusion rather than anger.

"Leave us," he barked at everyone else, and to Rolland he said, "Find the maid."

Ser Rolland bowed and made a hasty exit, followed closely by the sweating guards who had been present for Stannis' confrontation with Davos. For perhaps the first time ever, however, Davos and Melisandre exchanged commiserating glances that clearly said, _is that wise?_ But the scathing glare Stannis turned on them forestalled any protests, and they left in turn as well, the priestess sending one last unreadable look at him over her shoulder as she closed the door behind her.

He rounded on Lo Jun, grateful for the table that separated the two of them.

" _Why are you consorting with known spies for the false king?_ " He wanted to reach out and grab her by the shoulders, and shake her hard until the truth came out. Instead, he gouged his fingers into the chair before him—if he touched her now, he might just break her neck.

"I lied," she said quietly. "I am about as much a historian as you."

"You are a spy." He forced the words out through frozen lungs. She was a spy, and he'd brought her into his house and listened to her. He had _trusted_ her.

"Yes. I was employed by the God-Emperor Bu Gai to report on the activities of the many would-be usurpers for his throne." Her eyes lost their focus, as if she was reliving the scenes of some distant memory. "Women are preferred as spies in the YiTish court. Men are always suspicious of each other, since only other men can be political threats. Women have no importance beyond childbearing and housework, so why pay attention to what they overhear or see? It helps that you all seem to think we are feeble-minded and overly emotional." She smiled faintly. Despite his rage, Stannis felt slightly embarrassed.

"I worked officially as a bookkeeper within the Emperor's court. My unofficial duties involved finding other spies and informing on them—or turning them, when possible." Her smile became wistful. "It was very exciting. But I made a mistake. It was my day-to-day responsibility to track expenditures made by the Emperor's viziers—an easy task, at first. I began to notice the balance sheets did not add up. There were funds missing, or redistributed to things that simply could not have been purchased. I investigated using the authority I had as an official accountant, and discovered treason. The Emperor's closest and most powerful vizier, Tao Lai, was planning for war."

Against his better judgment, Stannis was captivated by the story. He tried to remind himself that she could still be lying, that he had no way to prove her words true, but his inner protestations withered before her frank vulnerability. He felt rooted to the ground as he listened, his limbs as heavy as stone.

"The Emperor has two other official claimants to the throne, along with the smattering of hundreds of descendants of the previous dynastic families. The Emperor himself is still just a boy, sheltered by the advisors his late father chose for him. At first, the viziers did not care about the other self-proclaimed emperors as long as they stayed where they were and did not divert too much wealth from the capital. But it seems one man, Tao Lai, felt it was time to take matters into his own hands—Bu Gai was too young and too weak, and former Imperial General Pol Qo in Trader Town was making worrying military advances that could eventually threaten the imperial palace. Tao Lai had been stockpiling weapons and purchasing men to overthrow Bu Gai and seize power, and planned to do so within a fortnight.

Because I had used the power of my office to trace the money, they knew I knew. There was only one possible outcome: they would kill me.

So I fled. I stole the seal I presented to you the day we met here, in this room. It is genuine, you know." She smiled lopsidedly. "It does belong to the Forty-seventh Master of Comparative Laws, but he is a deaf, lecherous old man who would lose track of a quill that he held in his hand. I used his credentials to board ships bound out of Yi Ti—hoping eventually I could reach Westeros, a place so far away that none of the Tao Lai's agents could find me."

It took a moment for Stannis to rouse himself from the spell her voice had woven. He inhaled deeply, relieved that he remembered how to breathe.

"That is a fantastic tale." He spoke harshly, not bothering to hide the betrayal he still felt. "You tell it well, and give me no way to verify what you've said."

"It is true."

"I have no reason to believe you," he snarled, "And every reason to distrust you."

She did not reply, but he could see the hurt and regret on her face as plain as day. It made _him_ suddenly feel guilty for causing her anguish, which just fueled his anger more.

"And it doesn't answer the question of why you have associated yourself with the Spider's known spies," he snapped.

"I did it out of curiosity at first," she replied simply. Her matter-of-fact answer surprised him—it was painfully honest, and the furthest thing from an excuse he expected. "But now, I do it in service to you."

Lo Jun produced a small piece of parchment, weatherproofed and rolled into a tight tube, from somewhere in her sleeve, and offered it to him as he finally stepped from around the table. He plucked it brusquely from her hand and broke the seal without looking as he unrolled it. The handwriting was terribly familiar, and as he read, his already grim expression darkened.

 _To the most honorable Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King._

 _I write to you today in hopes of forging peace between the Iron Throne and Stannis Baratheon. Too many men have died for both our causes, and many more will perish unless we find a way to unite our Houses. To this end, I propose to wed Lady Shireen Baratheon to Prince Tommen Baratheon. The Lady is the only living heir to House Baratheon of Dragonstone, and their union would reunite the two branches of the family under one peaceful roof._

 _Signed, Alester Florent, in the name of Lord Stannis Baratheon._

The document was stamped with the king's seal, signifying Alester had taken it upon himself to speak in Stannis' name.

Stannis' hands shook and he crushed the parchment in one fist to hide the uncontrollable movement. Betrayal assailed him from all sides, closing in like wolves on wounded prey. Whatever Davos' crimes might have been, at least the man had never sought to parley with the enemy—if anything, his latest act signaled _belief_ in his king's inherent abilities, not outright incredulity like this message. Stannis knew Alester Florent harbored doubts about the viability of any plans to rescue Brightwater Keep, but never did the king believe his uncle by marriage would so flagrantly undermine his cause.

"How did you get this?" he asked, and hurled the crumpled parchment onto the Painted Table.

"I have been paying close attention to many members of your household, Your Grace," she replied. "The maid from last night, Emma Storm, was in the employ of the man Varys, in King's Landing. I witnessed her receive this and another message from a different maid—I suspect the information came from Ser Alester Florent."

"Did you read it?" The parchment had been sealed when she handed it to him. How would she know Alester wrote the message? But Lo Jun was shaking her head, amused for some reason.

"The maid who passed the information on was sleeping with Ser Parmen Caron, Alester Florent's old squire. The number of persons privy to your plans is limited, and the maids knew you did not intend to sail to Brightwater Keep. Also," she gestured with her joined hands to the table, "The seal was the Florent symbol."

He drew a breath and closed his eyes, wishing the ache in his head would subside. Stannis could feel the throb of his heartbeat in his temples, each pulse threatening to split his skull in two.

"I followed Emma Storm from Dragonstone last night." He kept his eyes closed as Lo Jun continued. "I confronted her," there was a slight hesitation there, "and she dropped the message. She fell from the cliffs."

So, Alester had hoped to get his messages out without the need for a raven, which might have aroused suspicion from the maesters. Stannis gave the man credit for his attempt at outwitting Pylos, who Stannis had already instructed in private to read all outgoing messages. It was only chance, perhaps, that Lo Jun had observed something that ultimately resulted in the delivery of this damning missive to Stannis himself. Without her, what would Alester have done? Slit Stannis' throat in bed and sold Shireen off to the youngest Lannister bastard?

But that did not absolve Lo Jun of her own deceptions. Stannis clenched his teeth as his thoughts returned to the woman standing motionless before him.

"Your cousin—the mercenary. Is he really your cousin, or even a sellsword? Were your words then true, or have you two worked together to bring a foreign army to my shores?"

A tiny, tired smile flitted across Lo Jun's face.

"Lo Shan _is_ my cousin. He is, apparently, a mercenary in truth. He was still a member of the Emperor's cavalry when I left Yi Ti—a position he had long coveted. When I…" She looked down as she faltered, fidgeting with a link on her shackles. "When I left, I did not think about what would happen to my family. The inquisitors in Yi Ti are feared for a reason—they do not shy from using family against a person." There was sorrow there, in her voice, and a shame that struck him as genuine. When Lo Jun looked back up, her eyes were over-bright, as if she held back tears. Stannis grimaced. He did not care for weeping. "They took my father, at least. I do not know the fate of my brothers or sisters. In Braavos, Lo Shan implied he deserted when he heard I had been arrested and executed for treason. He knew what would come next."

She met Stannis' stare with a resigned expression. "I thought he was in Braavos to arrest me. He thought I was there to arrest him. There is no collaboration between us, kin or no. At the very least, he resents me—at the worst, he hates me." She let out a short laugh. "And neither of you trusts me, now."

 _Trust?_ No, he did not trust her. He did not trust anyone. Robert, Renly, Davos—they'd all betrayed him at some point. He was right to hold himself aloof from the rest. He was a king, and kings were friendless by nature. It was simply the way of things: nothing more, nothing less.

Unbidden, memories of the quiet companionship Lo Jun had provided him rose in his mind. She made no demands on him—while her opinions, when she offered them, were bold, she had never impressed upon him a course of action. He could not recall a single instance when her words smacked of manipulation, a rare thing he did not appreciate until now. When prompted, she laid her thoughts out for him like words on a page—he could take them or leave them, and until the problem of Robert's bastard arose, it did not seem Lo Jun would have cared either way.

He wanted to trust her.

"Why should I trust you?" _Give me a reason_ , he wanted to shout. "Why should I trust _anything_ you say, when you have deceived me from the start?"

She was silent, her face a mixture of emotions that came and went as she struggled with an answer. _Don't say it_ , he suddenly thought, in a moment of absolute, frantic clarity. _Not that._

"You know why." Her gentle words echoed in his spinning head. The floor abruptly seemed very far away.

"Impossible." But what, exactly, was impossible? An affair? Robert had certainly bedded many common women, despite being wedded to that Lannister witch. Or was it impossible that a woman had an actual romantic interest in him? Selyse had never found him attractive—a sentiment he reciprocated with respect to her—and the Red Woman was apparently only interested in the power his blood offered for working whatever magic it was that she possessed. He'd long since given up on the idea that _love_ was a possibility. The very notion was absurd. He was too old for such naive fantasies.

She smiled sadly and somehow he knew she saw his thoughts as clearly as if they were a beacon in the night.

"Of course." She bowed to him, the iron that fastened her hands together clinking with the movement. "I accept your decision. I only beg your favor to tell Lo Shan what I have said to you—as my kin, I would wish him to know the truth of why he cannot return home."

Stannis watched her, conflicted. He was not a forgiving man, but even he had given Davos a second chance after his Hand attempted to assassinate the Red Priestess—a far worse crime. And despite her dishonesty, she had been acting as the eyes he did not even know existed, keeping watch against enemies he did not know he had. In his bones, he knew he needed her.

She did not resist as he lifted her arms. Carefully, he pulled the pin that secured the shackles around her wrists. The iron clattered to the floor, just barely missing their feet.

Slowly she looked up at him. Her eyes dropped to his mouth just as his heart leapt.

"Impossible," she sighed then, her soft lips parting alluringly as she repeated his own words back to him. She stepped back, pulling her hands from his loose grip.

He had just begun to reach for her when a knock at the door returned him to his senses. It was Ser Rolland, whose perplexed gaze went from Stannis to Lo Jun to the discarded shackles, and back again.

"Your Grace," the knight said, "The body of the, ah, maid washed up on the shore this morning. It appears she fell from the cliffs last night." He eyed Lo Jun with naked suspicion. "And the head housekeeper informs me another of her maids also… fell last night, down a flight of stairs. Parmen Caron is distraught—he was apparently bedding her, poor lad."

Instinctively, Stannis looked to the historian—no, the spy. She was watching his bannerman with a peculiarly blank expression that plucked a chord deep in his mind. Suddenly, he felt uneasy—not afraid, exactly, but fundamentally unsettled in a way he had not been for a very long time, not since witnessing the horrors wrought by starvation during an impenetrable siege.

He'd let her around his daughter, unguarded. He'd taken her across the Narrow Sea, spent time in small quarters together, unguarded. She was dangerous—but she'd never given him reason to believe she would harm him or his family.

"Ser Rolland," he said finally. "Arrest Alester Florent and Parmen Caron. Throw them in the cells for treason—I will speak with them when I see fit." Rolland Storm's surprise was almost comical, but Stannis knew his faith in the man was warranted. Ser Rolland was a fierce devotee of the Warrior—he held no love for the Florents. Obediently—if not somewhat reluctantly—Rolland left again.

"Did you kill them?" Lo Jun turned her head to Stannis, tilted like a hound. Her eyes glittered like dragonglass.

"Would you have preferred me not to?" He had no answer to that. It struck him as entirely contradictory that she could be so casual now, yet condemn him so strongly for contemplating the sacrifice of Robert's bastard. Seven Hells—the boy was only one person; she'd ended _two_ lives.

"Have you killed before?" She did not seem distraught to have ended the lives of two young women, but perhaps the shock still affected her.

"Yes," she replied simply. He snorted in disbelief.

"You claimed not to know how to use a sword," he reminded her. She nodded agreeably.

"I do not know how to use a sword. I know the knife, the garrote, and poison—and my own hands." She smiled, but it was not a kind smile, and it did not quite reach her eyes. "The sword is for men at war; women are more subtle."

He grunted. Subtle was a nice euphemism for underhanded. He preferred to win his battles on an open field, the strength and wits of one honorable commander matched against another. As Stannis' gaze settled on the crumpled parchment that condemned his wife's uncle, he grimaced—apparently it was foolish to believe he could avoid the shadowy schemes and deceit that plagued the Seven Kingdoms.

"You are no longer my historian," he said. "And you are no longer Shireen's tutor. If the false king has spies, I must be on guard. You are now my Master of Whispers—or Mistress, if you prefer."

"Master, if you please, Your Grace," Lo Jun replied immediately. If she was surprised, she hid it well. "The less others know, the better." Stannis nodded curtly and stepped away, dragging a hand along the Painted Table.

"I trust you will use what you've learned from this experience to my advantage."

"Yes, Your Grace," she said, and he glanced back at her. She was smiling wryly at him, dangling the shackles that had bound her from slender fingers. "Next time I will not be so careless."

* * *

 _A/N: A little bit of book for the show. If anyone was wondering why I retconned Alester Florent into being alive in this story, it's because this is a better arc for him than appearing just as a beach bonfire. And as always, thank you everyone for the views and reviews!  
_


	19. Chapter Eighteen

The ships that sailed from Dragonstone followed on the heels of the departing storms that had battered the island for days. They sat low in the water, laden with men and supplies, great wooden beasts that sliced through the water as fast as the oars and winds would take them. Strange men crewed the decks, mixed in with suspicious knights who watched the shores of their homes disappear beyond the horizon as the fleet put farther and farther out to sea. The masts flew bold banners with flaming hearts that proclaimed one thing to all eyes: Stannis Baratheon sailed for war.

The flag that streamed proudly atop the _Fortune Smiles_ declared it the flagship; it carried the king and his retinue, including his miserable queen wife and enthusiastic young daughter. From the rumors, Queen Selyse made it no secret that she strongly disapproved of highborn women accompanying their menfolk off to battle—an opinion that seemingly even the Red Priestess could not alter. Selyse's sourness clearly did not affect her offspring, however, who routinely frightened the sailors by popping out of the woodwork to inquire as to the goings-on of the ship before finally being corralled and returned to the ladies' quarters.

The royal family was accompanied by the Hand, the Priestess, the Master of Whispers, the YiTish sellsword captain, and a peculiar man who seemed more specter than substance. Tensions were high, a fact deliberately ignored by all involved—to confront the issue would be to admit trust was nearly non-existent, which at this point would spell sure doom for the expedition. So instead, a frosty politeness had descended on the ship, and everyone strove to stay out of the others' way as much as possible.

Lo Shan's disappearing act was so good, in fact, that Lo Jun had not actually seen her cousin since they accidentally bumped into each other when boarding the _Fortune Smiles_. He and his strange companion seemed to have taken refuge below deck while Stannis and the others occupied the area above.

In contrast, she had no one but herself to blame for the awkwardness caused by Davos' constant watchful eye. She had tried to apologize to him for her deceptions, but regardless of Stannis' apparent forgiveness there was no way to instantly repair the shock caused by Rolland Storm's accusations. Lo Jun did not know if Stannis had relayed her story to Davos, but she suspected the Hand would think it prudent to keep a careful watch on her either way. Just because his king chose not to punish her for a supposed crime, did not mean Davos shared that sentiment. After all, Stannis trusted the Lady Melisandre, and Davos' opinion of the Red Woman was still lower than low.

For his loyalty, Ser Rolland Storm was appointed castellan of Dragonstone. The sturdy man had glowered at Lo Jun with his pox-scarred face ever since he hauled her before Stannis—his fearsome expression well-nigh chased her aboard the ship, an honestly intimidating, unspoken threat to watch herself or he would track her down and execute her himself. She almost wanted to tell him he would have to wait his turn behind half of the YiTish court, her cousin, and Davos, in that order, but he did not seem the type of man to appreciate that attempt at humor.

All in all, that left only the Red Priestess with whom to converse, and Lo Jun was not about to stick her head into that snake pit. The screams of Alester Florent and Parmen Caron as they burned at the stake still haunted her sleep, accompanied by the eager smile on the priestess' face as she watched the sacrifices to her god writhe in pain. Melisandre said it was necessary to secure good winds for their journey south, but Lo Jun preferred to leave such things up to chance, if human sacrifice was the only way to guard against fickle weather. What was worse, it unnerved the YiTish woman even more that the priestess seemed completely unsympathetic to Shireen's obvious terror at the burning—at least Stannis had had the shred of decency to allow his daughter to turn her face away and cover her ears, although that was futile comfort for the poor girl.

It was just easier to blend into the background.

Luckily, everyone was content, more or less, to let that happen. She opted to remain on the starboard side of the ship, out in the sunshine where Davos would have no trouble locating her to appease his distrust. Despite everything else, the coastline they passed was pleasing to look at and the weather was fair, so Lo Jun settled for watching the faraway wind-blown cliffs slip steadily by.

Stannis came to stand beside her for a brief moment, but made no comment as they sailed past the mouth of Blackwater Bay. Lo Jun wondered if the boy on the throne in King's Landing could feel the king's hate as it passed him by. She certainly could not mistake Stannis' grim look for anything but anger. Frustration rolled off his hard-set shoulders in heavy waves—she glanced down to see him squeezing the wooden railing beneath his hands as if it were the false king's own neck. He remained there until the bay was firmly in their wake and left without a word, and she returned to her silent lookout.

Darkness had begun to fall when the first ships crossed the horizon in view of the northmost tip of Tarth. As the sun slipped beneath the water, each ship doused all but the necessary lights—to the distant eye, thousands of men simply vanished in the night, fallen off the edge of the world. Several ships—the ones carrying Salladhor Saan and his favored sellsails—continued past the western shores of Tarth, their lanterns lit merrily to draw the eye.

A strained quiet fell over the _Fortune Smiles_. The men moved about without noise, their voices muted—even the chains and oars seemed muffled as they dipped into the water. Lo Jun pressed her hands to her ears, sure she was going deaf, but the uncomfortable sensation of being swaddled in heavy wool padding remained even afterwards.

As if drawn by some unseen force, everyone in the king's entourage but Selyse gradually drifted to the starboard deck as the lights of Storm's End began to glitter in the distance. Lo Jun felt Shireen sidle up next to her, the girl's blue eyes huge in the murky light. The YiTish woman smiled as she felt a small hand clutch at her own, and she gave Shireen's little fingers a reassuring squeeze.

Lo Shan and his strange companion joined them at the railing. Her cousin ignored her as expected, but the pale man smiled like a shark and dipped his head in a greeting that she uneasily returned. Up close, the man was even more unusual than she had first thought. His skin was so white it seemed translucent, and his lips and eyes were deep blue—but perhaps it only seemed that way from the lack of light.

"There must be unfriendly eyes at Storm's End," she said quietly and to no one in particular. "All of these men will be noticed by someone."

To her surprise and the surprise of everyone else, Lo Shan let out a low chuckle.

"I would not worry," said the peculiar man, still smiling unnervingly. She eyed him sidelong but decided it was wiser not to inquire further. There were secrets in the air tonight, and while Lo Jun loved secrets, she preferred the kind involving mortal men and their schemes—not the supernatural.

It was well into the dead of night when their ship made land at Storm's End. The squalls that passed through and preceded their arrival had quieted the seas as much as could be expected for a place called Shipbreaker Bay, but there was no disguising the nervous anticipation that swept the decks as each ship silently and invisibly stole into the harbor to deposit its cargo before the sweating oarsmen pulled away and back out into the open ocean past the southern edge of Tarth.

Men, horses, cattle, wagons—the stream of movement leading away from the harbor and onto land was an almost-solid mass of people and animals and weapons and food and _things_. The Seven Kingdoms men whispered there was something unnatural afoot as the YiTish led their silent, compliant mounts off the ships—their beasts were too calm, their soldiers too orderly, like wraiths rather than human men. Lo Jun was tempted to tell them it was years of martial training and unquestioning obedience that made them this way—that, and a healthy dose of soporifics for the animals, which otherwise would have almost certainly been panicking just like their Westerosi counterparts. But of course, that would have ruined the mystery.

There was no time to waste, and no hands to spare. Lo Jun led the small dun mare she had ridden at Dragonstone off the _Fortune Smiles_ and mounted the animal as soon as there was space. The few possessions she had were already stuffed into the saddlebags. Lo Jun had told the king she needed no wagons to carry her items, and she intended to stick to that promise. Ink, quill, parchment, and smallclothes—she'd traveled from her home this way, and was satisfied thus far with the results.

She spurred the mare around the groups of struggling knights and cavalrymen, heading up the sloping path towards the plains that surrounded Storm's End. The army would not make camp—Stannis had ordered a fast march inland towards Summerhall rather than tarry. The king's standard flew at the top of the hill overlooking the harbor, joined by two unfamiliar banners, green and purple, and two lordly men she had never seen before.

The highborn man under the purple banner was speaking to the king and his Hand as the older knight in green nodded along. There was no call for her to interrupt, and so Lo Jun guided her horse to a position separate from the others from where she could still observe the ongoing disembarkation. Her earlier anxiety returned, and she glanced uncertainly up at the steep walls of Storm's End, where lanterns glimmered from watchtowers and windows. There was simply no way for such a large host to pass unseen, not from the guards and other sleepless residents. Her cousin trusted too much in the cover of night.

"If I may." It was the pale man who spoke, beckoning to her with long, gaunt fingers. Reluctantly, she nudged her mare alongside his mount.

The man passed a skeletal hand over her eyes as she frowned.

As her gaze returned to the army below, Lo Jun blinked in surprise. There was suddenly nothing there. No men, no horses, no wagons—just dust that hugged the ground like an ill-begotten fog. As she turned her head, a darkness flickered in the corner of her eyes— _there_ was the army as she knew it, but when she looked back again it was gone.

The man covered her eyes once more, returning her sight to normal with so little fanfare it was almost disappointing. She stared at Lo Shan, her mouth agape in a most undignified fashion.

"He's a warlock," she gasped, memory finally catching up. Pale, luminous skin, blue lips—the man was from Qarth, where the sorcerers drank shade-of-the-evening and conjured illusions. The God-Emperor's viziers had a standing invitation to these men and women, promising wealth unimaginable in return for help in further enlarging their own influence over the Empire. Where had Lo Shan encountered a warlock? While her cousin smirked infinitesimally at her astonishment, the thin man bowed to her from his seat, his hands folded over one another on the saddle horn.

"I am called Rithipol Sarey," he said in a voice that reminded her of skittering, dry autumn leaves, or of the scrape of old bones against stone.

"You worked an illusion," Lo Jun gestured out at the army below. "Is that how we appear to others?" The man ducked his head in what Lo Jun was sure was false modesty. Nearby, Melisandre frowned in disapproval beneath the voluminous crimson hood that covered her neatly pinned hair.

"There was no need," the priestess said stiffly, her back and shoulders held agonizingly straight atop the glossy black gelding she rode. "The Lord of Light protects us all. Hiding from our enemies is unnecessary when we follow the Chosen One."

"Perhaps this time we eased His burden," Rithipol Sarey responded placidly. If Lo Jun had coin to wager, she would have bet the warlock was challenging the Red Woman. Did he know she was a shadowbinder? The thought of a battle between two sorcerers wielding blood magic sent shivers up Lo Jun's spine. She did not want to be caught in the middle. "Next time, my Lady, your Lord may work through you instead, so that we may all see the power He grants you."

"Enough," growled Stannis, apparently finished conferring with the men who now spurred their mounts back in the direction of Storm's End without any introductions. Melisandre said nothing and lifted her chin proudly as she looked away. "Ser Davos will remain here and oversee the last men off the ships. Lo Shan has sent scouts ahead—we follow as planned, with an emphasis on haste. There are rumors that Mace Tyrell plans to eventually ride from King's Landing to Storm's End with an army." The king smiled grimly. "It seems he forgot what happened the last time he laid siege to this castle."

Stannis looked at Lo Jun.

"You are all to keep eyes and ears open for any mention of treason, and to report them to Lo Jun." Four pairs of eyes swung to her and she felt her cheeks warm with the unexpected attention.

"Your Grace," began Davos, but the king cut him off.

"She is my Master of Whispers." The poor former smuggler looked as if he might fall off his horse. Lo Jun could not entirely fault him—to him, one minute she was a spy, next she was, well, still a spy, but one he was supposed to trust. She imagined he felt as if she were the fox in charge of the henhouse, but nothing save time would fix that notion.

Acutely embarrassed by Davos' own palpable discomfort, Lo Jun chose instead to look at her cousin and his companion. She was taken aback to see Lo Shan eyeing her with an amused expression rather than the stony indifference with which he greeted her of late.

Leaving no opening for further discussion, Stannis kicked his horse into a trot, followed immediately by Lo Shan and Rithipol Sarey.

"A suitable promotion," her cousin said in YiTish as he passed, and she started in surprise. He had used the familiar form of words, and in a language ruled by varying degrees of formality for every conceivable social relationship, it was as plain a signal as any that he no longer viewed her as an enemy. There was no time to confront him about it, however, and Lo Jun was left gawking at her cousin's back as he rode off.

"Stannis does not need a spymaster." The Red Priestess looked exasperated. Lo Jun tore her gaze away from the men to return the other woman's stare.

"So sorry," she managed to say, "But would it not benefit the king to take advantage of all the tools available to him?" Melisandre tutted.

"The Lord will provide," the priestess replied, the strength of her conviction as clear as day. "He will reveal the king's enemies to him, exposing their true hearts to the Chosen One in the flames."

"In the event He does not," Lo Jun said simply, "I will be here instead." She spoke out of instinct and almost instantly regretted her haste. Her words echoed the warlock's earlier rebuke of Melisandre's faith, and Lo Jun did not exactly want to align herself with the strange man without knowing more about him and his motivations, even in light of Lo Shan's apparent trust. She hoped the priestess would not interpret her reply simply as _taking sides_ —the only side Lo Jun was interested in was Stannis', admittedly in more ways than one.

The Red Woman's scowl returned. Without another word, she urged her gelding after her king, leaving Lo Jun alone with Davos.

The Hand chewed his bottom lip as he studied her.

"So," he said finally, "You came to Dragonstone because you fled your duty." Evidently Stannis had indeed told Davos her story, or at least the important parts. She felt a mixture of defensiveness and relief—she could not spin the tale to her advantage anymore, but at least she had no opportunity to give in to the temptation to massage the truth for her own benefit.

"I came to Dragonstone because I fled for my life," she snapped. "I am aware I am no paragon of virtue." She was supposed to protect the God-Emperor from his enemies, and she had instead elected to save her own skin. In a perfect world, the fact that she had no real loyalty to Bu Gai or anyone else in the YiTish imperial court should have played no role in her decision—it was her duty, but she had run from it. To dutiful men like Davos, she had undoubtedly committed the worst sin. Still, Lo Jun felt no remorse for abandoning the boy Emperor or his corrupt inner circle—surely duty meant more when it was owed to a deserving figure, rather than a puppet.

"And now you are here to serve Stannis." The criticism in Davos' tone needed no words to be more explicit. _To serve Stannis with the same lukewarm devotion you showed your Emperor_ was what she knew he meant to say.

"Yes," Lo Jun said firmly, matching him stare for stare. Any additional explanation would not impress Davos, nor would it benefit her to insist she would do a better job this time. The Hand was not a man to take her words at face value—especially not now. She would just have to make sure she lived up to her bold promises, and give Davos no new reasons to disbelieve her. "You doubt me, but I will answer you honestly."

"Why?"

Why, why, why—did these Seven Kingdoms men ask nothing else? Lo Jun bit down hard on her bottom lip and looked away. She had vowed not a moment ago that she would not deceive Davos, but his question was one she was entirely unwilling to answer. If she could not say the words to Stannis Baratheon, she would certainly not be able to say them to Davos Seaworth.

"Ah." The man settled back in his saddle after a moment with a knowing nod. She cursed him silently, her cheeks aflame with embarrassment at her own transparency, but took it back a moment later. It was her own mistake in being so obvious about her affections—a display she would never have dreamed of in Yi Ti, and should not have succumbed to here. Ashamed of her reaction, Lo Jun pulled her reins to the side, directing her mare away from Davos and back towards the thousands of men on the move below.

"May the Seven grant you luck," he called out after her. "You'll need it."

* * *

 _A/N: Finally, we're going places! Sorry to say, however, updates will now slow down for the summer; I've run out of pre-written things and my work schedule is blowing up.  
_

 _KioshiUshima: **So close.** But that would be too easy. _ :3

 _Cornelio, Guest, and Theeyeofanger: Thank you all! I'm glad you're enjoying it!_


	20. Chapter Nineteen

The Lady Melisandre said that the blazing sun beating down on the thousands of armored men who rode onto the open grassland surrounding Nightsong was a sign from the Lord of Light, an omen of coming good fortune for the Prince that was Promised.

Stannis found it to be largely an annoyance, omen or not. It was almost too hot, particularly beneath the sturdy steel plate and rings that protected his chest. In his mind, Renly's old jest rang appallingly true, for Stannis now felt like a lobster in truth—cooked alive in his armor in the oppressive heat. He was thankful not to be one of the heavy cavalry on this morning, whose red, sweating faces showed him the true picture of misery as he rode past to the head of the column. His army had ridden hard across the plains and moors since making land at Storm's End, stopping only for a few hours' rest each day before breaking camp and resuming the push to Brightwater Keep. Stannis knew it would be impossible for such a large host to make it all the way across the stormlands without anyone knowing, but the farther they could travel without the false king's soldiers nipping at their heels, the better their chances were of success. Thus far, the only bad news he had received was his wife's near-constant complaints about discomfort, but he was sure Tywin Lannister had already begun to assemble an army in pursuit. Stannis' men were exhausted, but time was running out.

He reached the front of his lines and reined in, his proud warhorse tossing his head in displeasure at the unspoken command to stop. Stannis squinted in the sunlight, his brows drawn tightly together. Behind him Davos and two other men clattered to a halt as well—Sers Astin Taner and Cason Storm, somber knights once sworn to what remained of House Caron and now loyal to the new Lord of the Marches, Rolland Storm. Ser Astin carried Stannis' banner, the flagstaff wedged firmly and securely into his stirrup, while his companion held Lord Rolland's new coat of arms: a single yellow bird on a field of black.

Before them stretched the walls of the castle Nightsong, the formidable fortress that had long guarded the westernmost borders of the stormlands. The Singing Towers rose high above the mess of buildings that sprawled within the castle's embrace, quiet now in the still air. Flags hung limply from the ramparts—it was impossible to see the coat of arms without a breeze to carry them, but the prominent white and glimpses of black revealed they were assuredly _not_ of House Caron. Tiny figures of silent men stared down from their posts atop the walls, most likely holding bows in case the assembled army outside decided now would be a good time for a charge.

The massive wood and iron gates creaked open as Stannis continued inspecting the battlements with a critical—and decidedly unimpressed—stare. Six riders approached at a trot, armored and carrying the same white and black banner that dangled from the castle walls. Their moderate pace made the cloth flap languidly, and Stannis caught sight of black chevronels on a white field—House Foote of Nightsong came to parley, with their own newly minted cadet flag nonetheless.

The men came to a stop a respectable distance away. None were missing an eye—Ser Philip, the supposed new Lord of the Marches, was not amongst them, if he was even present in the castle at all. A pity—Stannis had hoped to avenge the death of Bryce Caron, Rolland Storm's half-brother, who died at the Battle of Blackwater after fortune smiled on Ser Philip. A knight of renown like Bryce Caron should have easily defeated such a one-eyed opponent of little note, but fate was unpredictable and great men often met their ends in an undignified manner. Ser Philip likely remained at King's Landing after receiving his reward for killing the heir to Nightsong, safe behind Lannister steel. Stannis grimaced. The martial peoples of the Dornish Marches deserved a better lord.

Four of the knights seemed surprised to see the Caron men sitting astride their horses behind Stannis. The king hid an unseemly smirk as the Foote men opposite him exchanged curious, somewhat shameful nods with their former brothers-in-arms—at least they had enough sense to be chastened by their disloyalty. At first, Stannis had resisted the idea of bringing a former hedge knight and the son of an exceedingly minor lord to parley with the Footes—and especially giving them the honor of carrying his banner—but Lo Jun had firmly and politely insisted, saying it would benefit him to bring men to show he valued House Caron and its contributions to his cause. He did not know how she had become acquainted with the two lowly knights, but upon seeing the reactions of the four others, he had to admit his Master of Whispers might have had a point.

The knight who cleared his throat first was not one of those who recognized Astin Taner or Cason Storm. He was a short, stout man with hair and a beard the color of sawdust. His armor showed signs of recent use in battle, the dents and scuffs marring both metal and leather too serious to be caused solely by dull practice swords.

"Lord Stannis," the knight said, "I had hoped to meet you at the Blackwater." Stannis' frown deepened in displeasure—that was highly presumptuous. He'd never seen this knight before, and the man's appearance matched no description with which the king was familiar. His umbrage was only tempered by the recognition that a similar no-name knight from a minor house in the westerlands had slain Bryce Caron. In different circumstances, Stannis might well have been the previous Lord of Nightsong.

"That is _King_ Stannis," interrupted Davos, ever on guard against insults to his liege. The Foote knight shifted in his saddle, his mustache twitching like a cat's bushy tail.

"There is only one king," the knight replied stiffly, "Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name."

"That golden-haired bastard is no more Baratheon than he is king," Stannis barked. "There is only one _true_ king of the Seven Kingdoms. Bend the knee now, and you will keep your lives despite your treason."

"Bold words for a pretender with only foreign sellswords to support his claim." The second knight was tall and severe, and spoke looking down the length of his sharp, hawkish nose as if everything before him offended his senses. Stannis hated the man on sight.

"We will not bend the knee—this castle and its holdings now belong to House Foote of Nightsong." The first knight readjusted his hold on the reins, the leather beneath his grip dark with sweat. Stannis noted with spiteful pleasure that the hot weather did not seem to be treating these men well, either. "Ser Philip slew Bryce Caron at the Battle of Blackwater—and we have heard the fate that befell the last Caron heir before your departure from Dragonstone."

"And now Ser Philip hides in King's Landing behind Tywin Lannister's skirts while his men are left to defend his new lands in his name." Stannis curled his lip in a contemptuous sneer as the Foote men bristled. "Tell me, how much does he truly value your loyalty, if he sups in luxury while you fight alone for your lives?"

"It is an honor to defend Ser Philip's claim," the tall knight sniffed pompously. Stannis wanted to strike the man for his maddening arrogance. "Who else would protect and rule these good people?" Perversely, Stannis hoped there would be no surrender, and that there would be a battle—while it might cost him valuable time, if nothing else, the king thought to himself, he would do everyone in this castle a favor by ridding them of such an insufferable personality.

"Rolland Storm is the heir to Nightsong." Ser Astin had a booming voice that would rise above the loudest cacophony in a crowded tavern. Here, on the open plains, it carried as clearly as a crisp horn calling men to battle. Indeed, the four knights who had first awkwardly recognized him now seemed to swell with pride, sitting straighter in their saddles with their heads lifted high. "As rightful king, Stannis legitimized him—Lord Rolland's claim is more valid than the award from the false king Joffrey."

"The people of Nightsong—"

"The people of Nightsong have no love for new lords from the westerlands." Stannis retorted, tired of the conversation. He did not come all this way to exchange words under a broiling sun with lesser nobles who stood in his way. "You are no marcher lords. I am a Baratheon, to whom these men have pledged their lives for generations. _You_ are the strangers here." The Foote knights exchanged uneasy glances, their horses sidestepping nervously upon sensing their riders' stress. It seemed he had struck a nerve. "If you do not surrender, my army will crush you with ease—but before seizing the castle I will ensure the people within know that _you_ are responsible for whatever death and destruction comes to pass. Bend the knee, and you will not have to test how loyal Nightsong truly is to House Foote."

The knights murmured amongst themselves, their hushed conversation growing increasingly agitated. The men who had exchanged barbs with Stannis clearly stood firm in their position—the stout knight shook his head repeatedly while his sour companion drew himself up in haughty dismissal of the others' words. Stannis watched them scornfully—dislike them he might, but at least the first two men were unquestioningly loyal to their lord and stood ready to defend him and his holdings against his enemies. Not even the thousands of men assembled before them, ready to assault the castle, would sway them from their duty.

The argument was taking too long. Each second felt like an eternity to Stannis, who grit his teeth at the supremely unpleasant sensation of warm sweat trickling its way down his spine.

"Do you yield?" he finally snapped, his harsh voice pitched loudly over their whispering. The six men fell silent and turned back to him, their faces fraught with varying degrees of distress. The stout knight who initially addressed Stannis opened his mouth to reply, but one of the four other knights—an older, grizzled man with a battered and flattened nose behind him—spoke first.

"Nightsong is yours, Your Grace." Stannis twisted his mouth into a grim but satisfied smile.

The tall knight let out a strangled yelp of dismay, one of his mailed hands flying to his chest.

"Ser Gyles, this is treason and folly of the highest order. Willem," he gestured wildly to the stout knight with the thick, dusty beard, "Do something!" Ser Willem's horse danced sideways as the large knight unsheathed his sword; the three men who had not yet spoken answered in kind as they freed their own blades from their scabbards. Grim-faced, the three silent men pushed forward to guard the old knight, who sat somber and immobile amidst the commotion. In response to the sudden baring of weapons, Davos trotted up alongside his king with his good hand on his sword, while Stannis merely watched with growing interest.

"We dealt with you because we had no choice after Parmen Caron's treason." Ser Gyles made no move to defend himself as he regarded the two Foote loyalists coldly. "But Nightsong has always belonged to House Caron, and Ser Rolland is no longer a bastard."

"He is a baseborn _pretender_ ," the tall knight hissed, his pale blue eyes glittering in fury.

"He is one of our own, and he is our lord." Gyles nodded to Astin Taner and Cason Storm. "Our brothers remembered that, and we will carry our shame at not doing so for the rest of our days."

"You are traitors—" sputtered the tall knight, but it was an empty threat. Ser Gyles turned his imperturbable gaze calmly to Stannis.

"Nightsong is yours," he repeated, "And if Sers Willem and Symon refuse, I will meet them myself in single combat to settle the issue."

Despite the sweltering heat, it seemed as if the very air had turned brittle, teetering on the edge of shattering under the growing tension like ice on a lake. Ser Willem moved first, slowly and deliberately bringing his sword up to salute Ser Gyles. The older man ducked his head in understanding and drew his own blade.

"By your leave, Your Grace," said the gray-haired knight, but Stannis knew Ser Gyles was not truly asking for permission. The man sought redemption—the king saw no reason to deprive him of it, especially not if it meant taking Nightsong without a costlier battle.

Ser Willem kicked his horse forward, swinging his arm up. Steel flashed bright in the sunlight—the portly knight was quicker than his bulky frame suggested, but his opponent wielded his sword with the grace of decades of practice. Whatever strength Ser Willem possessed in his size, Ser Gyles matched with elegance, his movements as fluid and as smooth as water across stone.

It did not take long before the Foote knight swung hard from too high—Ser Gyles met his blade and swept it aside in a crescent arc, then pushed through the opening to draw the edge of his own sword up and across, catching the exposed flesh just above the gorget Ser Willem wore. Blood sprayed; Ser Willem clutched feebly his neck with his free hand, but it was too late. He slumped over his rounded belly, his sword tumbling from loose fingers, before he too tipped off his horse to land heavily in the dirt. Dust clouds exploded into the air as his body met the ground, and he did not move again.

Breathing heavily yet evenly, Ser Gyles pulled his mount's head to the side in order to face the tall knight, now pale and trembling beneath his ornamented helm.

"Garlan Tyrell will ride to our aid," the tall knight whimpered, his voice a high, quivering nasal whine that betrayed his fear.

"Garlan Tyrell will be too late," Ser Gyles replied coldly. Blood dripped off the edge of his blade as he held it away from his body, turning the dirt beneath his horse's hooves to sticky mud. The tall knight's eyes widened at the sight, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"I—I yield," stammered Ser Symon. Stannis eyed the man in open contempt as he gestured to the others, directing them with an unspoken command to take the coward away.

He rode through the castle gates with Davos and Sers Astin and Cason at his back, followed by his bannermen. At first, the faces that stared back at them did so in fear, but upon seeing the banners they bore, a ragged cheer began to rise from the growing crowd. The reaction was most certainly mixed, the happiness of many matched by the anger of others—Stannis could see a number of scowls and disgust amongst the more welcoming faces. He put them out of mind—he had seized Nightsong with only one death, and those who opposed him had no choice but to accept. They could resent him all they wanted, but he was still the victor.

The maester, a surprisingly young man with an unfortunately crooked back and sharp brown eyes, waited for them beneath the vaulted stone entry to the castle's main hall. He bowed to Stannis as the king approached.

"Your Grace," he said in greeting. "Nightsong welcomes your arrival."

Stannis grunted. "Not everyone does," he remarked. The maester bowed again, flashing large, yellowing teeth in a quick, apologetic smile. The man reminded Stannis of a rat, and the king grimaced slightly.

"Your Grace." It was Ser Gyles who addressed him, the tired lines around his eyes and mouth deeper now that Stannis could see the man more closely. "We are yours to command because you are the rightful king, and because Lord Rolland follows you. But like our lord, we follow the Seven." He hesitated, and Stannis sighed inwardly at the request he knew was coming. "I humbly ask that you do not execute those men here who refuse to bend the knee by fire, but by sword."

"Granted," the king said tersely, ignoring Ser Gyles' thankful bow. Stannis knew he would hear complaints later from Melisandre and those bannermen who followed her, but in truth, he was not in the mood for more burnings. Alester Florent and Parmen Caron should have been enough to sate the appetites of the Lord of Light and his believers for a while. To Stannis, the Red Woman's foreign faith was proving more and more to be a hindrance rather than a blessing. As the Chosen One, he had certainly attracted a deep, devoted following, but the unforgiving demands of the Lord of Light clearly drove other strong men like Rolland Storm away. Stannis had originally hoped those who worshipped the Seven—or whatever other old gods they put their faith in—would also follow him out of duty, but that was growing less likely by day.

It was late afternoon when Lo Jun finally appeared. He had holed himself up in the solar usually reserved for the Lord of Nightsong to review a handful of maps in relative peace when she gave his door a polite knock before opening it, and did not cross the threshold until he invited her in. She wore stained riding leathers and a plain brown shirt with a high collar that reminded him of her YiTish dresses, particularly in the way she tucked her hands into the large sleeves. For a moment, Stannis wondered what she hid in the voluminous fabric that concealed her arms, but decided he did not want to know.

"What is it?" he asked gruffly, deliberately disregarding the instinctive warmth he felt at the sight of her.

"Your Grace, I wish to inquire what you intend to do with Ser Gyles and the rest of the Caron men who submitted to you once again this morning." Stannis clenched his jaw. She might be his Master of Whispers—and he might have a multitude of foolish affections for her—but he would not stand for being questioned.

"They were disloyal; they abandoned the defense of their lord's House," he grated out, tossing the parchment in his hand onto the disorganized table before him. "In the Seven Kingdoms, betrayal of that sort is punishable by death. Do not defend these men guilty of your own offenses."

Despite his ire, a part of him regretted his harsh words. It was petty to throw Lo Jun's past back into her face, but he could not stop himself from lashing out. He continued to struggle with the disappointment and upset her deception had caused him. Robert had once insulted him in a fit of anger by telling Stannis he had the temperament of a jealous mistress—prone to harboring long grudges and nursing resentment long past the point where other men would have forgotten the original affront. Stannis was keenly aware of Lo Jun's quiet acceptance of his anger at her, her delicate attempts to show him she was truly loyal, and the embarrassed longing she tried to hide when he stood close. He wanted to forgive, to have things go back to the way were before between them, but he did not quite know how. In the past, he had always drawn a twisted pleasure from feeling aggrieved, but now it just felt wrong.

Lo Jun's only answer for a long, uncomfortable moment was a flinty stare.

"If you punish them—if you execute them or imprison them or send them away—who will defend Nightsong when you leave? You cannot leave the castle the way you found it. There are not enough men here, and you do not know how many truly support Rolland Storm over whichever Lannister-backed lord will come next. Or will you order part of your army to stay here? If your enemies indeed intend to confront you, you will need all of your men on the next battlefield—not languishing behind a siege leagues away." She spoke quickly, decisively, like a scout giving a report to a commander. "These men at least follow Lord Rolland, and they appear to have more influence over the others than another knight you might select. Pull these roots, and you do not know what will grow in their place. Give them the chance to show their loyalty to you and to their lord—desperate men shown mercy and empowered with a reason to please will do everything they can to satisfy you."

Stannis snorted. "You are soft," he said, but he did not entirely mean it as an insult. Lo Jun was, in many ways, as firm as granite—but she also possessed a compassion he lacked. Of course, she was a woman, and her empathy was only to be expected of her gender. He did not have the luxury of gentleness. He was a king, and kings were decisive and fair—his rule must be stable, not fickle. He could not be swayed by emotion.

"There is no fault in being merciful." He started slightly at the heat in her voice. He did not expect her to be more upset by his last comment than by him implying she was a deserter. Lo Jun's face betrayed no distress, however—her dark eyes met his as placidly as ever. "But sparing Ser Gyles and his men is not a question of softness. I am a pragmatist; in this moment, it is the wisest choice."

Stannis ground his teeth unthinkingly as he considered her advice. It pained him to admit, but in truth, she was right. Leaving Astin Taner or Cason Storm in charge of Nightsong would ensure the presence of some loyal men, but they were barely above common folk, and he did not know how strong they would be. The knights and other self-important residents would doubtless look down on them—even the threat of the king's punishment might not deter them from usurping matters to suit their own selfish ends. A newly retaken castle needed a sturdy, well-known hand, but Rolland Storm remained at Dragonstone, and Stannis trusted precious few of his other bannermen to hold the castle in the absence of their king. Not to mention Nightsong was already desperately short of fighting men—depriving it of even just one head might be the difference between resilience and crumbling under siege.

The king turned abruptly on his heel and stalked to the arched window, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He stared out over the battlements without truly seeing, the tiny movements of faraway men lacking any real meaning even as his dark blue eyes tracked them bustling to and fro.

Finally, he looked back at Lo Jun.

"If Astin Taner and Cason Storm will speak for them," he said, "Ser Gyles and his men will be spared. Tell Ser Davos to summon them after the evening meal."

"Yes, Your Grace." She bowed to him, dismissed.

"Lo Jun." The woman paused and gave him her attention once more. "What will you do tonight?" He forced the words out around the lump that had formed in his throat. His question skated the border of impropriety—he was not directly asking her to join him, and it would be perfectly reasonable for a king to inquire as to his Master of Whispers' plans for the first night in an unfamiliar place. He was torn between wanting her to tell him she would come to him and choosing to ignore the unspoken invitation, and he was not sure which he desired—or needed—more.

Lo Jun watched him with an unreadable expression for no more than a heartbeat. "I will walk the castle, Your Grace," she replied gently, "And I will listen to the whispers as they come."

A wave of relief washed over him, crashing against the anguished ache that blossomed in the depths of his chest. Stannis nodded brusquely and quickly turned back to gaze out the window again, hoping his face did not betray him and his weakness. Only after he heard Lo Jun's light steps leave the room did the king finally exhale, letting his shoulders fall wearily.

Just as well. He had more to plan.

* * *

 _A/N: KioshiUshima: Happy summer indeed! BBQ fo' dayz.  
_

 _Antonius McMichael: Thank you! And shit, yes, you're right. I'll have to go back and fix that when I have the time. Thanks for catching that!_


	21. Chapter Twenty

As the sun finally sank below the horizon, the people within and around the castle breathed an almost palpable sigh of relief. The fading light took with it the oppressive heat of the day, leaving behind a comfortable warmth that radiated from the castle stones. Even more merciful was the mild breeze that blew in from the distant hills to the west; it cooled the tempers and the sweat that had risen earlier and caused the resurrected black and yellow banners of House Caron to flutter from the ramparts and the highest windows. Best of all, however, was the gentle melody that drifted down from the Singing Towers, where the wind threaded its way through the elaborate stone carvings and pipes to finally fill the air as an almost otherworldly music.

Whoever named Nightsong had chosen well.

The castle's residents were, by and large, engaged in muted celebration. The many who felt relief at Ser Rolland being named Lord had their joy tempered by the presence of the stern king whose strange army camped in and around the castle. Those who resented the Bastard of Nightsong and his newfound legitimacy grumbled into tankards of ale, but knew there was nothing they could do about it, not now at least. And, of course, there were also a good number who felt nothing but indifference—one lord was the same as any other, when things really came down to it.

The small hooded figure that passed silently through the courtyards and open doorways drew no attention from the men and women growing increasingly drunker as the night wore on. There was nothing of interest in the festivities in Rolland Storm's honor, and no real reason to linger where a stranger's presence would eventually be noticed. Happiness bred no ill deeds—it was not the loyal citizens thankful for the return of Nightsong to the Caron bloodline that Lo Jun wanted to find.

Open doors hid no secrets, and the king's spy gave those rooms but a fleeting glance as she drifted through the castle and the buildings that supported it. It was the closed doors to quiet rooms where she paused and pressed an ear to the cracks between wood and stone. Sometimes it was nothing but the tired, shy hostler bedding down after a very long day. Sometimes, however, it was a handful of men and women who conversed in low, insistent voices. If she remained still, her breath carefully slow, Lo Jun could catch words like _traitors_ , and _bastard_ , and _Tywin Lannister_. It was these rooms she watched, waiting patiently in the shadows, at times rewarded by the arrival of one or more people who looked furtively over their shoulders before slipping inside to join their coconspirators. She made mental note of their faces and clothes—two squires and their sour-faced knight-masters, a number of guards, and a maid or two joined the list of people she would tell Astin Taner, the new castellan of Nightsong, to watch carefully.

Weeding out the dissatisfied men and women from this border castle was, in Lo Jun's view, an unfortunate exercise in futility. She doubted it would do much good in the greater scheme of things whether she provided loyalists to House Caron with knowledge of those who potentially worked against them. The men now in charge of Nightsong might be too weak to take action, or too slow—they might even be swayed by their opposition to once more defect to the Lannister-backed side despite their current devotion to Rolland Storm. And yet, if she could prolong Nightsong's fall into the enemy's hands, it might still be worthwhile. Perhaps nothing good would come of it—but perhaps she simply did not give House Caron enough credit.

It troubled her more that she was blind and deaf to the goings-on in the capital. Without actual knowledge of her enemies, they existed only in her imagination. Tywin Lannister might as well have been a three-headed basilisk with fangs as big as a man's arm for how fearsome he was described; the Spider, a shape-shifter with a thousand eyes and ears that saw and heard all. Lo Jun wanted to know these men, to give them real faces and real voices. They were only men, after all, with minds she wanted—and needed—to understand.

The problem was getting to those minds. She'd first thought to send her own spies to King's Landing, but the pool of Westerosi men (or women) capable of or even willing to undertake such a task was nonexistent amongst Stannis' supporters. She could have asked Lo Shan to send men of his own—with the warlock's help, they could pass as Westerosi in appearance. But she doubted they spoke Common well enough, and their accents would almost certainly give them away. Moreover, strangers in Joffrey Baratheon's court would have no access to the powerful. Lo Jun could send an army north, but it would do no good if they could not get past the gates to the Red Keep.

That left her reliant on either the appearance of someone she could actually use with the requisite skills and personality, or—more likely—a miracle. Lo Jun had little faith in miracles. Her inability to see a way forward left her feeling useless, like a kite shorn free of its string, watching everything from afar but unable to navigate without a tether to the ground.

The hour was past midnight when her feet finally carried her back to the stables. Just beyond in the courtyard, torches burned merrily, turning the darkness into a semblance of daylight. A handful of guards led by Cason Storm and a tiny, wiry YiTish man dressed like a scout manhandled a stranger in Lannister red and gold through the courtyard. The strange man's clothing looked two sizes too large and sported some unusual stains, as if it might be an outfit stolen from a previous owner who had met an unlucky end in some dark alley. If he was truly a representative of the wealthiest House in the Seven Kingdoms, Lo Jun thought, she would eat her own slippers. She eyed the YiTish scout curiously. He had a round, flat face like the moon—it made him look stupid, but she thought she could see a sharp intelligence in his dark black eyes.

"I must see the king," the man was insisting, although no one seemed to care about the words that emerged from his mouth. "I bring word from King's Landing; urgent news that he must hear." The guards around him laughed rudely, pushing him on the shoulder so that he stumbled.

"You're no messenger," Cason Storm snapped, weariness making his otherwise mild temper short. The knight plucked distastefully at the sleeve of the stranger's oversized tunic. "You stole this guardsman's uniform. You came to the wrong castle if you were hoping for amnesty; Nightsong serves King Stannis Baratheon, and we punish thieves according to the law."

The alleged thief puffed himself up like an outraged owl, sputtering. He straightened his wrinkled tunic.

"I _borrowed_ this uniform," the man said. "I'm quite an honorable man, good ser." Ser Cason stopped at the door to the main keep and turned back to face the newcomer with a serious look on his face.

"Do you deny your crime?" the knight asked slowly. The stranger seemed unfazed. A small, sly smile spread across his pockmarked features like honey poured over a sweet cake.

"There's no crime to deny," he replied. "And you can't prove that I've stolen anything. Now, will you lot let me deliver my message?"

The only response he received was a strong cuff to the back of the head, a blow that made him stumble in shock and pain. Hidden in the shadows, Lo Jun winced to herself in sympathy—Cason Storm was a large, strong man whose mailed glove probably did the stranger's scalp no favors. Indeed, even in the flickering torchlight Lo Jun could see the stranger's hand come away from his hairline smeared with fresh blood, confirming the reason for his pained grimace.

There was no use in interrupting the men as they led their captive to the dungeon. The guards would not have paid her any attention had she requested to speak with the stranger alone, and Lo Jun certainly did not desire any prying ears if there truly was an important message for Stannis. She trusted Cason Storm well enough—he was stoic and reliable, if not a little lacking in creativity—but the others were unfamiliar Nightsong men, and she simply did not know them well enough to give them any trust. She did not need to follow them closely to know where they went. In fact, rather than stalk the guards, she took a leisurely path to the silent kitchens to procure a small skin of wine before making the descent into the Nightsong dungeon.

There was no one around to see her slip through the dark hallways that led to the cells. Lo Jun wrinkled her nose in distaste as the heavy door that sealed this part of the castle off from the rest closed quietly behind her. All dungeons smelled the same, it seemed—damp, cold, and sour. Unwelcome memories of the weeks she had spent imprisoned on Dragonstone returned swiftly. She did not miss it.

Nightsong differed from Dragonstone in that the cells here were sealed by sturdy wooden doors and iron hinges, with little windows that guards could open from the outside to peer in on their prisoners. For a moment, Lo Jun stood uncertainly in the middle of the hallway—which door concealed the stranger?—but it was not long before she could hear him swearing faintly to himself behind the farthest door. The others must have contained those men who remained loyal to House Foote—they were the condemned, who would be executed once the sun rose. Lo Jun was thankful that at least there would be no burnings.

She was surprised to find the keys to the cells dangling from a hook near the entrance. It did not strike her as good practice to leave such valuable items where anyone could grab them, but perhaps it was an oversight by whichever guard had responsibility over the dungeon. His mistake—her luck.

She was about to unlock the stranger's cell door when the softest scuff of boots on stone made her spin in surprise. The YiTish scout who had accompanied Cason Storm to the dungeon now stood at the door through which she had entered, his moon face pale in the watery light that streamed in through grates in the ceiling. They stared at each other, she in plain surprise, while the scout's placid expression betrayed no emotion whatsoever. It was like looking at a smooth, unblemished porcelain plate—impressive even by YiTish standards.

"Do not go in alone." The scout said in YiTish. Even his voice sounded distracted, as if his head were lost in the clouds. "You might be killed. Lo Shan would be furious if I let you be harmed."

"You knew I was here?" she asked. The scout blinked slowly, but did not respond. Lo Jun almost laughed at herself. She should have known. This man would not be a scout if he were truly slow or inattentive. He must have spotted her outside in the stables, or following the guards into the castle. She immediately resolved not to underestimate him, no matter what his appearance suggested about his mental capacity. "What is your name?"

"Li Gang," he replied. It was a common name, and meant nothing to her about his family or background. She bowed to him regardless, a gesture he returned more deeply out of respect.

"Li Gang, I thank you for your concern. Would you accompany me into the cell, instead?" It would be far easier to speak with the stranger face to face rather than through the little window. There was more privacy that way, not to mention she could hardly peek through the portholes even if she stood on the tips of her toes. Lo Jun knew it would be folly to go in unaccompanied, but even the mere presence of another man could deter the stranger from attacking a woman.

There was no hesitation from Li Gang. "No," he said. Lo Jun resisted the urge to scowl.

"Why?" she nearly demanded, struggling not to be offended that an unimportant scout dared deny her. Her status as a court official would have brought her instant obedience from someone like him back in Yi Ti, but this was not Yi Ti and she was no longer a representative of the Emperor. Swallowing her pride, Lo Jun bowed again, schooling her expression into one of patient indifference. "I apologize, Li Gang. I only ask because it would afford extra privacy if the messenger's words are sensitive."

The scout was not moved. "Lo Shan would be furious if I let you be harmed," he repeated. Lo Jun felt a flash of annoyance—after not acknowledging her for so long, her cousin's sudden familial acceptance was proving to be an unanticipated bother. She tried a different tactic.

"Is there reason to fear this stranger?" she asked. "Is he dangerous beyond your abilities?" The sly insult did not seem to bother Li Gang, who shook his head pendulously.

"I do not believe in taking unnecessary risks."

Typical. He was a scout, not a glory hound. In ordinary circumstances, Lo Jun might have agreed with Li Gang—spies did not live long if they had a penchant for uncalculated gambles—but the possibility of hearing news from capital was too tempting a prize to pass up. She _had_ to know.

Swiftly and before the scout could cross the room, Lo Jun stabbed the key to the messenger's cell into the keyhole and turned it. The bolt slid back with a satisfying _thunk_ , and she stood to the side as she carefully pushed the door open with her fingertips. Li Gang was at her side in an instant, but the stranger did not pop out to strangle her.

Instead, he simply gawked at the woman and the scout from where he squatted on the bucket that had been provided for bowel movements. His ill-fitting trousers were bunched around his ankles—Lo Jun doubted he would be able to move quickly even if the bucket were set on fire beneath his bare bottom. So much for a threat.

"Stannis' prisoners get gifts before being condemned?" asked the messenger incredulously. "Shit, if I'd have known, I would've been arrested before this."

Lo Jun chose to ignore the implication that she was a whore, and stepped closer so that she was just within the cell door. The messenger did not move from his bucket, which suited her just fine. One man's bare ass looked the same as any other. At least he was not relieving himself on the bare floor.

"I will take your message to the King," she told him calmly. The stranger snorted.

"Sure love," he leered at her, clearly still believing this was part of a whore's game. "I'll tell you all my secrets."

Lo Jun sighed inwardly. She did not mind men with crass language, but ruffians could be exhausting to deal with.

She held up the skin of wine that she had taken from the kitchens just before coming to the dungeon. The stranger's eyes followed it hungrily. She uncorked it, took a deliberate swallow to show it was not poisoned, and tossed it to him. The liquid sloshed as he caught it, and he eyed her before pulling the cork and giving it a sniff. His eyebrows rose and he took a quick, greedy draught.

"No brothel girl I know brings Dornish strongwine to a prisoner." He looked her up and down critically, taking in her practical riding leathers and dark cloak. She would be the first to admit she might be mistaken for a boy, but a prostitute she clearly was not. "I heard of you in King's Landing," he said. "You're that YiTish historian. People been talking about how Stannis keeps finding foreign women to give him counsel 'cause no self-respecting Westerosi man would do it."

His eyes flickered to Li Gang, who still lurked just behind Lo Jun like a ghost.

"Milady, I don't want no prying ears."

"He does not speak Common," she replied, smiling politely in an attempt to keep the weariness from her face. She did not risk looking at the scout, but hoped that if he did indeed understand this language, he would also understand what she was trying to accomplish. "Your message will be safe with me, and I will convey it to the King."

The man sighed in exaggerated disappointment. She was as good an audience as he was probably going to get, considering he was an ordinary ruffian in stolen enemy colors, with no official seals or letters. If he did not tell her his message, he might not get the chance to tell it to anyone at all. As she watched, he wiggled oddly, seemingly attempting to shake something off his body and into the bucket, and Lo Jun could not keep a small grimace from passing over her face.

"I'm here on behalf of House Velayron." He paused. "Well, no, not really. I'm here because Aurane Waters paid me to be. This message is from him. Good timing for him and for me—if Stannis lets one bastard be Lord of the Marches, maybe he won't mind working with the Bastard of Driftmark too." He eyed her again, his expression once more bordering on the inappropriate. "How come a woman takes messages for the King?"

She smiled slightly. "Because there is no one else awake at this hour, it seems. Continue, please."

"Aurane Waters sends word that Garlan Tyrell rides for Horn Hill with ten thousand men at the end of the week. Tywin Lannister intends to follow in two weeks' time, and will meet up with the Tyrells at Brightwater Keep." His face bunched in concentration. "That was… a week ago, I guess."

"And what does Aurane Waters want, for this message?" Lo Jun had never heard of said man, but her instincts led her to doubt with all her heart he sent a messenger out of any sense of duty to Stannis.

The stranger smirked. "Said to tell the king he's doing it because he's loyal. But I'm sure a lordship and a lot of gold wouldn't hurt, for a man like Aurane."

She was not surprised. Nothing came free. Even men who were truly loyal expected _something_ in return. The exception might be Davos, who was selfless beyond Lo Jun's understanding. At least Aurane Waters seemed to have a simple price.

"Thank you," she said to the messenger. Li Gang moved out of her way as she turned to go. "What was your name, please?"

"Mudge, milady." Lo Jun concealed a wince at that name. Even to her foreign ears, it sounded ridiculous. "What's gonna happen to me?" Mudge asked. "I don't want to be burned by that red witch Stannis keeps by his side."

"I will speak with His Grace," she told him. "And I will tell him you and Aurane Waters should both be rewarded handsomely for your efforts." She could not promise Stannis would listen or even care, but Lo Jun saw further use for Mudge. Brigands like him were easy to hire, and would usually do what they were hired to do as long as the money was good and there was no higher bidder. The trick would be to find others who were not already in the pockets of the Spider—or to outbid him. Mudge and his ilk could be her eyes and ears in the places she could not go.

Li Gang watched her as she locked the cell door and followed her silently as she left the dungeon. He did not have to speak for her to feel the reproach directed her way. She wondered if Lo Shan would have words for her in the morning, but right now she was too tired to care.

The scout left her at the hallway that led to the rooms housing the royal family, slipping away without a sound. She hardly noticed him go, her attention captured by the light spilling from the crack under the door to the king's solar. She frowned in concern. He was still awake. Lo Jun stood before the door for several moments, waffling between knocking and simply going on her way to bed. To her slight dismay, her foolish urges won out, despite her exhaustion.

The king was sitting in the only chair in the room, a tall, heavy thing that resembled a throne carved from ruby-tinted wood. He had pulled it from the small reading table to the east-facing window that overlooked the castle courtyard, leaving behind a pile of parchment and a row of candles that had almost burned down to the nub. She could see he held a roll of parchment loosely between the fingers of his left hand, dangling forgotten as Stannis stared out of the window at the night sky.

"Robb Stark is dead." His voice was hoarse, no doubt from speaking the entire afternoon with the various people who had come to plead for whatever it was they imagined he could give them. Lo Jun had not possessed the patience to stay and watch the king hold these audiences—she had slipped away after an hour to find something more interesting to do. "The Lady Melisandre tells me I should turn north now, and forget Brightwater Keep."

Lo Jun did not think she needed to explain the folly of that plan, but the protest burst from her lips nonetheless. "Turning north would require fighting your way through the heart of the Seven Kingdoms. You would be encircled on all sides by unfriendly territory, even more so than now." Stannis did not seem to be listening.

"Tywin Lannister has a free hand now; he will make for Brightwater Keep with his full force." She stepped closer, coming to stand before him. His eyes remained unfocused, staring at the empty space around her feet.

"Perhaps sooner than you think, Your Grace," she said apologetically. Ill news was always the worst to break, but for the first time Lo Jun did not fear the repercussions of doing so. It was a comforting feeling that whatever the king's anger might be at the message, it would not fall on her head. Stannis frowned at her, his eyebrows knitting together darkly. "There is a messenger in the cells. He brings word from King's Landing—the Tyrell host rode out today for Horn Hill, some ten thousand men led by Ser Garlan Tyrell. The Lannister force intends follow shortly, and join at Brightwater Keep." Stannis' expression did not change—if anything his frown deepened.

"Who sent this messenger?"

"A man named Aurane Waters, of House Velaryon." Stannis was shaking his head before she even finished her sentence.

"Aurane Waters is an opportunist," he scoffed. "He will do anything to satisfy his ambition; his only loyalty lies with whoever he feels can give him the best reward at the moment."

She considered this for a moment. "Is there nothing you can promise him? He is clearly searching for a way to improve his situations, and if he is reaching out to you once more it seems he does not find his current position too favorable."

"He wants to be Lord of the Tides, no doubt. His nephew is only six."

"The messenger says Aurane Waters sends word of his loyalty to you, but as you say, he also believes Waters is angling for something more." Stannis did not reply, but she could see him thinking. "It may be useful to return the messenger to Aurane Waters with some benefit for continued loyalty."

"He will return to the Lannisters with a wagging tongue about my army," the king said sourly.

"The Lannisters most likely already know everything the messenger would say," she said gently. "The ravens flew this morning, when you confronted the Nightsong defenders. The archers could not kill every bird, unfortunately. And besides, there is no doubt we were seen on the march here."

"That is no reason to give them any opportunity to learn more by setting this so-called messenger free."

"You need spies in King's Landing," she told him. It was apparently not what the king wanted to hear, because he gripped the arms of his chair tightly and fixed her with a furious stare.

"Lies and secrets," he snarled. "I despise these politics and the intrigue. When I take the Iron Throne, I will rid the kingdom of this web of conspiracy."

"Where there is man, there are schemes," Lo Jun said patiently. This was a universal truth. The YiTish had long since embraced the idea, perhaps even taking it to the extreme—there was hardly a person in the Imperial Court who was not spying on behalf of one noble or another. It did not surprise her that Stannis hated the thought of living amidst a nest of snakes, but she knew he would never succeed in changing the nature of man. She also knew he would never survive the game alone, not with his rigid sense of duty and justice. He would be eaten alive. "But that is why I am here, Your Grace," she reminded him.

His jaw bunched in displeasure. "It still requires my involvement," he growled.

"You do not have to enjoy it." In fact, Lo Jun suspected it was Stannis' inability to conspire that drew her to him. He was different, painfully honest—it was indescribably refreshing after a lifetime in the Imperial Court of words with layers upon layers of hidden meanings. "What will it hurt, to promise something you do not yet have to Aurane Waters?" she pressed. "If he betrays you, you lose nothing—if he stays true, you both stand to gain much."

"Perhaps if I had sacrificed Robert's bastard this could have been prevented." There was a hint of accusatory nastiness in Stannis' voice to which she could help but take slight offense. Her chin tilted up in stubborn refusal to believe his words.

"You did not need to burn a child to retake Nightsong," she pointed out. "In fact, you did it without losing a single man."

"Nightsong was child's play," he sneered. "Even that weakling Joffrey could have taken this castle with its paltry resistance."

"Then you still have no reason to doubt your abilities. You have less men, but careless confidence in numerical superiority is often the doom of many a general."

"Fewer," the king said. She blinked at him. "And my men—your cousin's men—are untested on these battlefields. I would be a fool to turn away all the help I can get, even if it does come at the cost of a terrible act. But that option was taken from me, even though it might have been the only way to ensure victory."

Lo Jun was silent a moment while his frustration burned itself out. There was no use in revisiting this argument. "How did Robb Stark die?" she finally asked.

A vein in Stannis' temple bunched as he ground his teeth. She wondered if he would have any teeth left at the end of his life, he abused them so badly.

"Betrayed by Walder Frey at the wedding of Robb Stark's hapless uncle to one of Walder Frey's countless whelps." He finally tossed the parchment away from him with a careless flick of his fingers. Mesmerized, Lo Jun watched it spiral lazily down to the floor like a fallen autumn leaf. "Walder Frey will reap what he sows. The gods do not countenance a kinslayer." Stannis' expression changed then, from fury to contemplative and, she imagined, almost sad. "Perhaps that is why I lost the Blackwater."

"No," she said. "You lost because you fought like a conqueror—with an army, to take by force what is yours. Your enemy fights not only with men but with wits—they have discovered what each of them truly wants and made alliances to get it. The boy king will marry the Tyrell girl because she is doing her duty to gain power for her House—or do you truly think the two are in love?" There was no missing the jest in her question. No one with half a brain could think the Tyrells sought anything but power and influence. Even she could tell, and she was a foreigner to whom these Seven Kingdoms customs often made no sense.

"The Stark boy cast duty aside and wed for love," the king said thoughtfully, "And it cost him his life." He did not look at her, and she wondered if it was on purpose. Her heart twisted, even though she knew better—she did not wish to be reminded of the impossibility of her affections for Stannis. His fingers tapped idly on the thick wood that served as the arm of his chair.

"There is virtue in following duty," she said, her words echoing in her head as if she spoke in a dream.

"It is my heaviest burden," he said quietly, and her heart nearly broke.

Hesitantly, carefully, as if she approached a fawn nestled in the grass, she reached out to place a gentle hand on his own. Her touch was feather-light; if he chose to pull away, he would have encountered no resistance. But Stannis remained almost motionless, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only sign that he still lived. Emboldened, Lo Jun let her hand grow weightier, her palm warm against his cool skin.

He relaxed visibly then, his head falling back against the high back of the chair, and she smiled sadly. He held himself apart, even when surrounded by the advisors who loved him. But Lo Jun had seen the sorrows of many YiTish courtesans who pined for hard men like Stannis, and she knew she wished for the impossible. Men did not change their true natures, and this king was nothing if not unyielding iron. Whatever love she felt for him was nothing more than the hopeless crashing of waves against stone—only the passing of centuries would change anything, and she did not have that long to wait.

She turned to go, her fingers lingering on the back of his hand. Without warning, his hand caught hers in a calloused grip. She froze instantly, not even daring to breathe.

"Stay," Stannis said.

Lo Jun did not move for a long moment. The seers in Yi Ti would call this a crossroads—she stood at the center of a thousand paths that converged at this one instant, every possible future hanging in the balance. If she did not act, whatever opportunity it was that presented itself now might slip away beyond her reach, perhaps forever.

It was late, and they both needed sleep. But there was nothing more she wanted than to stay—her body ached for it, like the desperate cravings for water from a man lost in the desert. She could not tell if she trembled because of exhaustion or from nerves.

Stannis watched her as she cast a quick glance around the room, and he met her eyes with an unguarded and unspeakably exhausted expression when she finally looked back to him.

She knelt at his feet, ignoring the protests of her tired legs and thankful for the large, thick carpet that covered the area beneath the window. Her hand slid free of his, but on impulse she replaced it cautiously atop his thigh, just above his knee. She tried not to think too hard about the impropriety of her touch, but there was no stopping the flush from spreading across her cheeks as Stannis continued to watch her. Try as she might, she could not tear her gaze away.

After a moment of what might have been consideration, she saw the man in the chair settle back once more. His hand covered hers, his fingers curling ever so slightly around her own.

Some things did not require words.

* * *

 _A/N: In other news, if your boss ever says "I think you'll like this project" at 4 pm the day before a holiday weekend, you're gonna have a bad time._

 _KioshiUshima: Crap, good catch. Fixed! And I know, it's painful-it's gotta be a slow burn, though, because of the whole "I am an honorable man despite my dead bedroom" nonsense. But there's hope!_

 _mistressofdarkness666: Wow, thanks so much! I'm glad you're enjoying it; hope I don't disappoint!_

 _Antonius McMichael: Thanks! Word travels fast-Stannis had him and Alester Florent executed for treason, which was big news for Brightwater Keep and Nightsong, even if they ostensibly had new ruling families. I imagine someone told someone, and the game of telephone reached Nightsong before the army did._


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

Bards always sang about the legendary calm before battle. And yet, as Stannis barked orders at the men who scrambled frantically around him, there was certainly nothing calm about this moment. In fact, he seldom remembered there _being_ calm during wartime—even his memories of the seemingly endless siege of Storm's End consisted mainly of long stretches of paralyzing fear, not genuine calm. It was perhaps no surprise, the king mused idly to himself, that the bards were wrong.

He had been in an irritable mood upon arriving to his chosen battlefield, and had decided—much to everyone's dismay, he knew—that he required the rows of sharpened stakes be moved forward several yards. The men under his command worked quickly, most likely due to a sense of overwhelming dread that they would not be finished re-planting the palings before Garlan Tyrell and his gathered army rode over them. But there was no surprise onslaught of men and horses, and by mid-morning, the palings were once again lodged firmly in the earth before Stannis' front lines, angled to deter a full-frontal charge by enemy cavalry.

His men—the Westerosi knights and men-at-arms in plate mail—stood in the center of a narrow channel of freshly ploughed farmland, surrounded on both sides by heavily wooded forest. The earth beneath their feet was soft, newly churned by some common farmer who was, no doubt, much pained to discover that two armies now faced each other atop his livelihood. The rains that blessed the Reach with its fertile nature had fallen heavy the previous day and night, turning much of the land to mud—Stannis could see some of his men pulling their feet from the sucking earth in an effort to avoid getting stuck.

Interspersed with the knights stood the YiTish, arrayed in wedges and armed with spears tipped by wickedly curved blades. They were foot soldiers, placed to deal with the Tyrell men who were lucky enough to get past the palings and the heavily armored Westerosi who could not maneuver as quickly or as nimbly. At their flanks, just within the dense tree line, stood formations of archers wielding longbows. They were the lucky ones this morning, it seemed—they stood on firmer ground and in the shade, waiting in relatively comfort until the battle began.

A bee droned pleasantly near Stannis' ear as he squinted past the heads of his men at the green banners that had assembled opposite. A small YiTish scout wearing brown and smeared head to toe with dirt had informed him earlier that the enemy outnumbered him by several thousand. Garlan Tyrell had arrayed his men in three lines—the vanguard was made up mostly of knights and men-at-arms on foot, with attached cavalry wings and crossbowmen, while the main line and the rearguard contained the rest of the men-at-arms. The enemy horsemen were lightly armored—Stannis knew that the Tyrells possessed a good deal of heavy cavalry, but this terrain would not accommodate men and horses in full plate mail. The scout—reciting these facts in a dreamy, heavily accented Common that made Stannis impatient just hearing it—had also noted that the Tyrell men seemed supremely confident, an observation that Stannis hoped to take advantage of.

Amongst the banners that waved across the field, the king could make out a red archer on a green field, and he grimaced openly. He did not intend to repeat his brother's mistakes, but Randyll Tarly was the only man to ever defeat Robert during the Rebellion. According to the reports that Lo Shan's scouts had delivered, Garlan Tyrell commanded the vanguard, while Tarly led the main force. This was an arrangement that suited Stannis fine—Garlan was young yet, despite his prowess as a swordsman, while the Lord of Horn Hill would be a worrisome rallying point should he lead the first charge. Tarly's presence still nagged at Stannis, regardless—try as he might, he could not shake the feeling of foreboding.

 _I am not Robert_ , he reminded himself coldly.

It was a reminder he had repeated to himself since dawn. The Red Woman had been the first to greet him, awake as she always was to greet the rising sun. She had seen through his frosty demeanor to the nerves that sang in anticipation of battle and sought to soothe him, her hands caressing his shoulders and arms as she assured him that his success was certain because it was the Lord of Light's will. Ever since he ignored her counsel to turn north, Melisandre had doubled down on her attentions—she was always there, always ready to whisper deliciously in his ear. But the platitudes she hummed to him that morning did nothing. The gods had never listened to him before when he pleaded for their help in battle, and he had no reason to believe they would answer him now.

He had dismissed the priestess and her god, craving some solitude in which he could chase his own anxiety around in his head. Instead, he was interrupted only minutes later by Lo Jun, who approached him undeterred by the scowl on his face. She held something very tiny and metallic in her hands, which caught the light and drew his eye.

"I have heard women in the Seven Kingdoms give knights tokens of favor to wear in battle," she told him, and he looked at her as if she had lost her mind. She held up the object she carried, revealing it to be a woman's golden earring in the shape of a strange bird with extremely long tail feathers in flight. It was familiar, and he realized it was one of the pair she normally wore.

He had never worn a token, not when he reluctantly participated in tournaments, or when he rode to war. Selyse did not love him, after all, and he was not a man for sentimental expressions, particularly not the romantic types. To accept one now would be undoubtedly improper—he had a duty to his wife, as unpleasant as it was, and Lo Jun was… not his wife. She was no noble lady, even, whose favor might be seen as a gift or promise of support from a more powerful House. It would mean nothing, nothing besides an acknowledgement of her feelings for him.

Tokens were senseless and served only to flaunt how desirable a knight was to the fairer sex. Stannis had always scoffed at the men who wore scarves and hairpins while dressed in mail, and had detested Robert for his tendency to flaunt his mistresses' tokens back before he grew too fat to sit a horse. But the earring Lo Jun held was such a tiny thing, easily hidden beneath his armor and not likely to get in the way. The only trouble he might have would be losing the damned thing in the chaos. Surely it would cause no scandal, since no one besides the two of them would ever know, and gods knew they now shared more than a few secrets.

He wanted to wear it.

He had nodded once, curtly, before he could rethink this foolishness. She approached calmly, and his heartbeat quickened. He held his breath as she reached up to find a hole in the stitching near the fastenings of his leather collar, her fingers brushing the bare skin at his neck ever so lightly. There was a firm but gentle tug on his collar as she bent the golden hook around to fasten the earring in place, tucking it behind the fabric so that it would not be seen.

"What is it?" he asked.

"A phoenix," she answered. "A legendary immortal bird. At the end of its life, it bursts into flames, and is reborn from the ashes." Her dark eyes rose to meet his, and he suddenly became painfully aware of how close she stood. His nostrils flared with his sudden, sharp intake of breath—she smelled of horses and the rich earth churned up by the rains. "I felt it fitting for you."

They had never spoken of the night at Nightsong when he asked her to stay. Stannis had needed, desperately, to have someone to lean on in his moment of weakness, and Lo Jun was the eye of the storm. She had fallen asleep soon after his entreaty to remain with him, her head resting against his knee, and he had watched her sleep with the growing recognition that he _wanted_ her. Yet he had promised Selyse—and himself—that he would not betray his wife again. He hated the thought of breaking any vow he made—but oh, how he wanted to anyway.

Lo Jun had smiled at him then, and reached up to press one cool, smooth palm against his cheek. Too startled to do anything else, his hands gripped her upper arms instinctively. If she had moved even an inch more, he did not know what he would have done.

"You do not need luck today," she had told him. "But I wish it for you all the same."

It was absurd to think that women could have any place on the battlefield, but as Stannis now watched the enemy lines form, he wished Lo Jun was there with her quiet confidence. Davos, who stood stoically next to his king atop the gently sloping hill that overlooked the field, was certainly also confident in his king's abilities, but unsurprisingly the bearded ex-smuggler was a poor substitute for the woman whose token Stannis now wore.

A shout rose from the Tyrell army, men raising their spears and swords in salute as a knight in shining silver emerged from amidst the vanguard. He began speaking to his men, who answered him enthusiastically, beating their swords and spears against their green and gold shields.

"Garlan Tyrell has some nice armor, it seems," muttered Davos. Stannis allowed himself a grim smile, which faded as the Tyrell men let loose a loud cheer in unison.

"Make them come to us," the king said.

This was the battlefield upon which they would make their stand.

This was where they would live, or die.

The Tyrell men began to advance like a wave. Their eagerness made their lines somewhat disorganized and they grew more so with every pace—the cavalry that charged ahead soon far outpaced the men on foot, who were quickly bogged down in the muddy field. Stannis raised a hand and his archer teams answered by drawing their bows.

The cavalry was three-fourths of the way to his lines, their horses already tired from the gallop across the difficult terrain, when Stannis gave the order to fire. Arrows struck the cavalrymen, whose light armor served as little help against the onslaught. Horses screamed as they fell, tumbling with their riders into the puddles scattered around the field. Some men were trapped beneath their mounts, and drowned or suffocated against the wet earth. Some struggled free, only to be cut down by the second merciless volley. The YiTish recurve bows could not shoot as far as the Westerosi longbows, but their smaller size made it possible for the archers to wield them with deadly accuracy even from where Stannis had positioned them, hidden beyond the treeline.

The horses that escaped the deadly rain encountered the sharpened palings that protected Stannis' army and reared back, their survival instincts overriding their masters' urgings to jump or carry forward. The knights waiting safely behind the palings cut down those men who were thrown from their horses. Some clever cavalrymen tried to race around Stannis' lines and outflank the king through the woods, but met their own end as the archers picked them off easily from a distance.

Minutes ticked by, and animal and human bodies alike accumulated in the field. The men who charged on foot now had to contend with these obstacles—the corpses or soon-to-be-corpses of their friends and companions—that now lay in the way. Many slipped on the slick earth and fell, only to be crushed back down by the boots of those who pressed forward. Very few did not stagger as they approached, the excitement of battle wearing off quickly after having to run through the thick mud. Their enthusiasm was gone, their faces now drawn and pale in the sickening realization that this was not going to be an easy victory for the Tyrells—and that it might, in fact, have been no more than a trap laid for their own defeat.

Horns blew across the field, and the main force began its march. Stannis pulled his attention away from the violence unfolding before him to see Randyll Tarly lead a sizeable group of men on foot away and into the woods. The king ground his teeth. The thick woods prevented a cavalry charge from successfully surrounding his position, but men without cumbersome horses might have a better chance.

"Captain," he barked, and Lo Shan shouted something in YiTish at the sellswords who reinforced the Westerosi knights at the center of the battlefield. Men loped off after two of Lo Shan's lieutenants, their brown leather armor turning them almost invisible as they melted into the trees.

The battle had turned into a frantic crush in the center of the field. There were so many Tyrell knights and men-at-arms who pressed forward that those at the front had no choice but to engage with the Baratheon bannermen. Exhausted from their struggle across the muddy field, they were quickly cut down, only to be replaced by a fresh row of soldiers who stumbled over the fallen. Those behind, who saw the carnage, had no room to maneuver and could not defend their fellows—there was hardly any room to swing a sword, and their spears would have skewered their own men in the back. A few lucky crossbow shots killed or wounded Stannis' men, but by the time there was enough space in front to fire an arrow, the crossbowmen were already likely dead.

Such was the melee that there was no opportunity for the Tyrell archers to aid the swordsmen. They had delayed too long in order to allow the vanguard the honor of engaging first, and by the time it became clear that taking the center would be no easy victory, their arrows would have likely struck just as many Tyrell men as enemies. Stannis did not believe Garlan Tyrell would be so ruthless as to order his men to fire even if it meant slaughtering his own soldiers, and his belief increased each moment that passed without a solid answering volley from the Tyrell archers.

With the second born son of Highgarden in mind, Stannis peered out over the battle in the hopes of catching a glimpse of that shining silver armor. There was no mistaking it. The knight was a beacon in the sunlight, a white flame from which his men drew strength. Wisely, Garlan had not charged with the first of his men, but he had now reached the fray at the front of Stannis' lines and was steadily restoring order amongst his despairing bannermen. Stannis noted with mild dismay that the Tyrell lad certainly lived up to his reputation—his sword flickered gracefully as he cut through the men who opposed him and one by one, the Baratheon knights and men-at-arms fell back, earning a quick death if they were lucky. With renewed vigor, the Tyrell men pressed forward, yelling their support for their young lord. Stannis' lines bowed under the unexpected onslaught, threatening to break.

"Your Grace," began Davos, but the king was already midstride down the hill, drawing his sword.

"Hold the line," Stannis snarled, and flung himself into the breach.

The pandemonium was the same as he remembered from his brother's war and from the later Greyjoy Rebellion. No amount of training could save a man from the primeval urge to just survive—they hacked and swung and shoved without sophistication, struggling with single-minded determination to avoid becoming one of the wretched corpses underfoot. The smell of blood and fear and sweat and bile and filth from spilled organs hung thick and noxious in the air, a gruesome miasma that coated the inside of his nose and mouth and seeped its way down into the deepest corners of his lungs. His men barely recognized him as he pushed past, shouting invectives at those who cowered wide-eyed and dumb with the terror of impending death.

He fought without thinking, without caring, without planning more than a second ahead. The only thing that mattered was ensuring his line held—they could not allow the Tyrells to break through, or else they would be overrun. It did not matter to Stannis whether or not he killed the man he faced, as long as he still stood—all of their faces began to blend into one another, until he could no longer tell if he had fought one man or twenty. His limbs ached with the exertion—and the age, most likely, if he had bothered to stop and consider he no longer possessed the youth he had during Robert's Rebellion.

Blood spurted in a brilliant crimson arc as Stannis plunged the tip of his blade into the neck of a hapless knight in green. As the nameless man crumpled, the king found himself face to face with Garlan Tyrell. There was no time to stop and admire the truly exquisite workmanship of the silver roses and vines that decorated the conspicuous silver armor—not that the armor was in good condition anymore, after being battered aplenty and covered with the mud and blood and shit churned up on the battlefield. No, there was only enough time to catch half a breath before the younger man leapt for the king, somehow still boasting the energy that Stannis utterly lacked. Stannis brought his sword up just in time to prevent his head from being removed from his shoulders, and felt the painful jarring clash in his shoulders. He bared his teeth in a feral grimace without even realizing it, feeling the ache all the way to his bones.

He could do no more but parry Garlan Tyrell's blows, forced back step after unsteady step. Pain bloomed across his leg and he staggered, catching another glancing strike to his left shoulder. His left arm very nearly went numb, his two-handed grip on his sword slipping perilously.

There was a ferocious roar and a brown and red blur pounced from somewhere in the melee to engage Garlan Tyrell. Startled, the knight fell back as Lo Shan let loose a flurry of blows with an elegant, narrow sword. But the YiTish captain was not armored like the Tyrell, and he too soon reeled from a glancing blow to his cheek from one of Garlan's mailed fists. The knight did not spare Lo Shan a second glance, instead advancing on Stannis once more with a dangerously determined gleam in his green eyes. Stannis hauled himself upright—he would not meet his end here in the ignominious mud.

A loud crack split the air, as if lightning had struck stone right next to Stannis' ear. He was not the only one to flinch—indeed nearly the entire battlefield seemed to pause, shocked into stillness. A second explosion followed, then a third, and from the trees a black, hazy smoke began to rise. More than a few heads turned to gawk, the battle all but forgotten.

Unfortunately for young Ser Garlan, he too dropped his guard for the briefest of moments, startled by the strange and unexpected noise. It was the best chance the old king would get, and he knew it—Stannis thrust his blade forward, putting all his weight behind the blow, aiming for the armpit where the joint did not fully protect the Tyrell's chest. Had Garlan moved, Stannis would have likely toppled over from the force of his momentum—but Garlan did not move, and Stannis' sword punctured the joint as easily as if it were made of paper, sinking halfway up the blade into the soft flesh hidden beneath.

Stannis had long forgotten the faces of most of the men he had killed during Robert's Rebellion and Balon Greyjoy's later failed uprising. But as he watched the shocked look slide over Garlan Tyrell's face, he knew he would not forget this sight—the surprise was followed by pain and finally fear, as the young man realized he had been killed. Garlan staggered back, slipping off Stannis' blade, and collapsed to his side, clutching his shoulder where he had been stabbed. Blood poured from the wound and Stannis watched, terribly mesmerized, as life fled for good from his enemy.

Horns blew, a different sound from the triumphant brass that had first signaled the Tyrell charge. They blew repeatedly, urging those who remained to withdraw. Those Tyrell men who could, peeled off from the battle and stumbled exhaustedly back through the mud, chased halfheartedly by the few Baratheon defenders who still had energy to pursue. The king watched them go with dull eyes, the tip of his blade resting atop the corpses piled on the ground. He lacked the strength to lift it just one more time, even if it would have meant his death. His limbs trembled from the strain—and of course, from the giddy sense of triumph that swelled in his chest as the field slowly emptied of Tyrell bannermen.

Movement to his right drew his attention as a blood-streaked Davos limped over. Breathing hard, the Hand nodded in humble acknowledgement of his survival.

"Your Grace, do you want me to fetch some help for you?" Stannis was too tired to even frown. He tested his weight on his right leg and concealed a wince at the sharp pain that shot through his body. He shook his head firmly at Davos.

"No," he rasped. He was too old for battles, but too proud to show it. As long as he could still stand, he would walk back to camp unaided using his own two feet—and perhaps return later on horseback to survey whatever remained of the Tyrell rout. In his condition, Stannis doubted he would make it across the muddy, churned field without collapsing. "Garlan lies there," the king pointed to the body, now so still. "But where is Randyll Tarly?"

"Your Grace." Lo Shan approached, his left eye swollen almost shut from where Garlan Tyrell had struck him. The man did not seem to mind. One of his lieutenants, one of the men who had gone to stave off the threat of a Tarly encirclement, stood behind the YiTish captain. Now that Stannis could pay more attention, he saw that it was Cao An, Lo Shan's second-in-command, who bled sluggishly from one ear. "The man who led the Tyrells through the trees has fled."

Stannis almost laughed in disbelief. "Tarly _fled_?" There was simply no way that could be true. Randyll Tarly was not a man to retreat. As Stannis watched, however, a dark shadow crossed the mercenary's face.

"Is that not the correct word? If Tarly is the strong man with the sword that cuts through any metal, then yes. He fled, but not before killing most of my men—and your archers." Stannis scowled. That loss was unfortunate. "Cao An had to use thunder clap balls to force the Tarly man's retreat."

"'Thunder clap balls,'" the king repeated. Slowly, understanding dawned—the impossibly loud sounds that had interrupted the battle came from the YiTish.

"Yes." The sellsword captain produced a round, tar-covered sphere roughly the size of a man's palm. Stannis eyed it curiously. It was clearly not wildfire, since no green flames had consumed the woods, but some other foreign alchemy that somehow exploded. "We do not have many." Lo Shan shot a look at Cao An, who ignored his captain and wiggled a finger in the ear that did not bleed. "I directed that they be saved for emergencies only."

"You did not mention this before," Stannis said sharply. It was an accusation. His tired mind raced with the possibilities—the thunder clap balls were clearly effective at creating noise, but were they also capable of injury? How large were the blasts they generated? How many did the YiTish have? Had he known of this before, there might have been other strategic or tactical choices he would have made. Maybe he would have lost fewer men here in this charnel house.

Even as Lo Shan opened his mouth to reply, however, the king waved him off in sudden dismissal. There would be time later to discuss this secret and any others the mercenaries were hiding. Right now, Stannis needed to focus on remaining upright. The longer he delayed, the less likely it was that he could summon the energy to relocate himself back to camp without any assistance. Darkness threatened to close in around his vision, cutting him off from consciousness—the king forced himself to push it back, furious with himself for being so frail.

"You've won, Your Grace," Davos said, his voice sounding so very far away. "I suggest we return to camp and rest. I will see that someone trustworthy attends to your wounds. If you desire, perhaps the Red Woman may know—"

"No," Stannis interrupted. "Find someone else."

It clearly pained Davos to even consider calling upon the priestess to tend to the king, but that was not the reason Stannis refused. The thought of Melisandre undressing him in so vulnerable a state frightened and disgusted him. Part of him feared she would be disappointed by his weakness—her rejection on Dragonstone still burned in his mind, a constant source of shame whenever she drew near. Yet at the same time, he was instinctively repulsed by the idea that she would be his nurse—her hands were certainly elegant and graceful, but they were not compassionate.

There was only one loving touch he had ever felt, at least in his memory. Without thinking, the king reached up to the leather that extended past his hauberk and breastplate to feel for the tiny golden earring pinned inside. To his relief, he felt the warm contours of the phoenix safely tucked against his skin—it gave him an odd sense of pleasure to know he still carried it, as if he had won not just this battle but also succeeded in some indeterminate way for Lo Jun.

She might not know anything of healing the body, but perhaps she could soothe his soul instead.

* * *

 _A/N: waywardlottie: Thanks so much! I'm so glad you like it!  
_

 _anon: Thanks! In my secret dreams, I'm a romance novelist._

 _Duran: Thanks!_

 _KioshiUshima: Right, like, I mean, Jon's great and all, but he's Da King in Da Norf, not the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms (after Robert's Rebellion, at least!). Shireen is the cutest, though, hands down. Sweet cinnamon roll, too good for this world._


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

Lo Jun's mother had always been fond of saying that rockslides started with one boulder. It was her way of suggesting that once one major event took place, others accumulated in fast succession, barreling their way through history in an unstoppable rush. No matter how often Lo Jun had groaned at her mother's colloquialisms as a child, now that she was grown, she had come to accept that, as in most other things, her mother had been right.

She hardly had time to blink between the oh-so-welcome sight of Stannis after the battle—exhausted but victorious—and their arrival at Brightwater Keep. It might have been her excitement—the sort of overwhelming joy that made her head spin and her thoughts race frantically—that made time pass so quickly. It might also have been the lightning pace with which the camp packed up and pressed on, as if the gods themselves lashed the men and horses with fiery whips. Those too gravely wounded to ride were tended to in moving wagons or, if too far gone for any aid at all, simply left to perish on the side of the road, sometimes with an ample dose of milk of the poppy to ease their passing. There was no time to waste, not for dying men with one foot already in the grave.

The first few days after their arrival at Brightwater Keep passed in a blur. A raven arrived one morning from King's Landing, a scruffy, diseased-looking thing that squawked and bit anyone with the misfortune of coming near it. Tied to one leg was a miniscule scrap of parchment, rolled into a tight tube and sealed with the tiniest of silver seals depicting a seahorse. The maester to the Florents, Wysin, had refused to touch the filthy bird, even to retrieve the message, and so Lo Jun had to coerce the scout, Li Gang, into doing battle with the mangy creature. It certainly was quite a sight—the moon-faced scout plodded tirelessly and steadily after the flapping raven, finally wearing the bird down until it relented and allowed him to pick it up. True to nature, the beast was not so exhausted that it did not try to peck him at the last minute, but Li Gang was wearing thick calfskin gloves that prevented any damage.

The message was from Aurane Waters. Lo Jun had to read it twice to decipher the cramped, angled script—when the words finally sank in, she had bolted from the aviary, practically forcing the ruffled maester to leap out of her way. She ran—drawing many disapproving glances from those she passed—straight to Stannis' solar, but had the presence of mind at the very least to pause and knock. Composing herself was a good choice, for it seemed the entirety of Stannis' war council was present to voice their various concerns to the king, who looked rather aggrieved that yet another person had now arrived to bother him. But Lo Jun did not hesitate—she met Stannis' eyes squarely and strode through the center of the room to drop the scrap of parchment she carried into his hands.

Stony-faced, Stannis studied it briefly before looking back up to Lo Jun. Slowly, in the quiet that had fallen since her arrival, he repeated the first line of the message: "Joffrey Lannister is dead."

After a moment of shock, the room erupted into clamorous argument. Axell Florent and his young nephew Alekyne, the new Lord of Brightwater, both immediately advised the king to take advantage of Joffrey's death and march once more on King's Landing. Davos strenuously opposed, with Lo Jun in silent agreement, reminding Stannis that he had yet to consolidate his recent victories into a hold over the Reach. Unsurprisingly, Melisandre interpreted the false king's demise as a sign of favor from the Lord of Light, and urged the king to heed all signs from the god.

Stannis stood abruptly and roared them all into silence.

"This changes nothing," he snapped, brandishing the message like a sword. "Joffrey was a puppet, with barely enough competence to succeed in inflicting his cruel stupidity on the court around him. His grandfather is the true power behind the pretenders—until Tywin is gone, the threat remains."

"Tommen is a child still," Davos mused. "He may be less enthusiastic about the wars around him. I've heard he has not the appetite for violence as his older brother—and he _is_ still king, at least to the Lannisters. Perhaps he will advocate for peace. Surely Tywin must listen to the boy's commands."

"I do not seek _peace_ ," Stannis replied sourly as Melisandre and the Florents nodded in keen agreement. "Unless Tommen bends the knee to me as the king, I will continue to fight for what is mine by right. And besides, Tywin will not heed the whims of a child, be him nephew or proclaimed king. Undoubtedly the old snake will make Tommen think his grandfather's ideas are his own."

"What does the Lord of Light have to say? Surely the false king's death is His work, and He must have plans that follow." Trust Axell Florent to rely on his faith in times of uncertainty. Lo Jun hated his dependence on Melisandre's honeyed words only marginally less than she hated the boorish man himself. Stannis had seemed to be less and less sure of the Lord of Light in recent weeks, but that progress—and progress it was in Lo Jun's eyes, at least—surely would not last if he continued to be surrounded by such ardent and pitiful believers. Axell was the type of man the Red Priestess most easily wrapped around her finger—eager to please, like a puppy that craved its master's approval. The idea of Axell Florent peeing the floor in excitement distracted Lo Jun enough from thoughts of making the fat Florent disappear, and she concealed a nasty smile. Axell was looking hopefully to Melisandre, confident she would take his side in the debate.

"As I have said: this War of Five Kings means nothing." Axell Florent's crestfallen expression was truly delightful for Lo Jun. "The true threat lies to the North." The Red Woman faced them, her steadfast faith providing her with all the serenity in the world. She saw herself as nothing but the messenger—it was up to them to take her warning to heart, or not. "The time is growing short for you to save the Seven Kingdoms, Your Grace."

That admonishment did not sit well with Stannis, who ground his teeth openly and crushed the message of Joffrey's death in one angry fist.

"Time is growing short of _all_ of us, for everything. You still haven't given me a _reason_ why the North is so gods-damned important, or why I should give a shit about that miserable wasteland now that Robb Stark is dead and his luckless family is scattered to the four winds."

Melisandre gazed at him patiently, unshaken by Stannis' outburst. "The Lord works in mysterious ways."

Stannis' lip curled in a sneer.

"Get out," he commanded in an iron tone that left no room for argument. "All of you, out."

Lo Jun was the last to go, pausing at the door to make sure the others were out of earshot. Stannis stood alone in the middle of the room, bracing himself heavily against the tabletop. His head hung low, like a weary horse that had borne its burden well past the point of exhaustion. It was not a flattering comparison, but she felt a now-familiar swell of compassion.

"What is it you want, Your Grace?" she asked, and wondered to herself, had anyone ever asked him before? By all accounts, his brother Robert had been solely concerned with his wants, while it seemed Stannis walled himself off from even considering he might have desires of his own. It was no way to live.

The king turned away in frustration, his brows knitting together darkly.

"It doesn't matter what I want," he spat, the bitterness of his tone burning the air like acid.

"It matters to me," she snapped in return, hurt somehow by his dismissal of her concern. Stannis shot her a thunderous look—she could not tell if it was anger or surprise or some mixture of the two, but she drew a deep breath and forced her shoulders relax. "It matters to me," she repeated, more gently this time.

He stared back at her like a wounded animal.

"I don't know," he said at last.

She let the door close quietly behind her and, with a mind occupied by far too many thoughts, returned to her work.

Finally, one dawn, it seemed as if the world had finally paused to take a breath. Lo Jun woke to lovely pink skies and a long-overdue sense of stillness that seemed to calm everything from the wind to the birds. For the first time in weeks, she took her time readying herself for the day—she even spent an extra hour pinning her hair in a more elaborate braided style that borrowed both from YiTish and Westerosi fashions, accented with the jade pins she usually reserved for special occasions. Only after she was satisfied did she finally take her seat at the small table near the window to retrieve the growing pile of neatly organized papers locked safely away in a heavy but plain chest.

Criminals tended to flock to anticipated battles. While the smallfolk with the means to do so often left cities in droves when it seemed certain that opposing armies would clash nearby, opportunists who relied on the chaos to improve their own situations—at the cost of others' fortunes, naturally—almost always replaced them. Sieges in particular drew freebooters who quickly bought up all the food and essential supplies, then hiked the prices as high as possible. The steeply rising costs further fueled the nervous apprehension that seeped nefariously through the community—the nobles would be fine, because they had the money and the stockpiles, but the commoners relied only on their lords' largesse to save them from poverty and starvation.

Even Stannis Baratheon's fearsome reputation for unflinching justice could not deter the throngs of delinquents, both those who openly broke the law as well as those who just barely skirted the edges of lawfulness. They had arrived at Brightwater Keep and the surrounding city well before the king and his army, entrenching themselves in the daily life of locals as if they had always been there. Whether Stannis did not know or merely turned a blind eye to these human parasites, Lo Jun could not entirely be sure, but she threw herself into the seedy underworld with gusto.

It was there she sought news of King's Landing and Highgarden, rumors passed on from the remains of Garlan Tyrell's host, and whispers that trickled down from the North, of flayed men and a strange, growing unease of bitter cold and nameless terrors in the night. There was no way to tell if one man spoke truth except to ask the others—the more a story was told consistently, the more she believed it. Sometimes it took coin to loosen tongues, but she never opened a conversation with gold lest she draw unfounded gossip born out of greed rather than truth. Little by little, she catalogued the knowledge that she accumulated, copying what she had heard into coded YiTish notes that she occasionally translated for Stannis.

Not all of the rumors were true, of course, but it was better than nothing.

Atop the pile of papers today was one message that had arrived late in the night, delivered to her by the sullen Maester Wysin who was none too happy about playing errand boy for a woman, let alone a foreigner. Just as word of Joffrey's death had traveled by raven, so too did Maester Aemon's desperate plea for men to guard the Wall against the coming onslaught of men he called wildlings—and against an unspeakable horror born of winter that threatened the entire Seven Kingdoms. Lo Jun had tossed and turned the whole night after receiving the letter, chased in her dreams by something cold and dark that she could not see.

By late morning, she was finished preparing the latest batch of news for Stannis. As she stood, she checked her hair in the small pane of silvered glass that hung from the wall, then laughed at her unexpected turn to vanity. It would certainly be an obvious lie if she denied wanting to impress anyone today, and she hoped she did not come across Lo Shan or else she would have to invent a paramour to excuse her uncharacteristic appearance. Lo Jun was no stranger to fashion—after all, she had survived for years in the Emperor's opulent court—but her cousin was not accustomed to seeing her in such a manner, and he surely would have asked some rather uncomfortable questions.

As she made her way to Stannis' solar, she spotted Maester Wysin puffing his way along the corridor, the wisps of his disheveled white hair sticking up in a dozen directions. He reminded Lo Jun of one of the Emperor's fat parakeets after a bath, always flustered and loud, particularly with the constant clanking of the metal links signifying his station that dangled from around his neck. When he spotted the YiTish woman, he turned his nose to the air.

"The King is in a disagreeable mood," he sniffed as she drew near, "He does not need any _feminine distractions_." She concealed her amusement with a polite nod of the head. The maester's disdain for her was not personal, she knew—he disliked all women, it seemed, and similarly treated Stannis' wife with the same aggressive distaste, even though he had known her since she was a child. If Lo Jun wanted to be unkind, she would have wagered that Wysin's contempt for women was the result of overlong exposure to Selyse's own sour personality, but in honesty the man was likely just naturally prejudiced.

It would do no good to imply that she had important things to discuss with the king, since Wysin did not believe women had important things to discuss ever. The maester did not block her from her path, but as she passed him by she heard him continue to mumble darkly under his breath about the devilry of women.

The door to the king's solar was firmly shut—not uncommon for Stannis, but she could not help but wonder if it now also served as a way to keep persistent maesters at bay.

"I told you I don't need a wet nurse," came the irritated snarl as she pushed the door ajar. The king sat at the long table that occupied most of the space in the room, reading from a roll of parchment in one hand and making notes on a map spread before him with the other. The exasperation on his face smoothed over as he looked up, and he grunted in what might have been relief that it was only she. "That puffed-up maester is a pox on humanity," Stannis remarked, returning to his work as Lo Jun closed the door behind her.

"He means well," she said mildly, and Stannis snorted.

"He is a pest. Don't think I've missed his ill manners regarding my queen wife or the Lady Melisandre. Or you." He put the parchment down and picked up another. "He insists on coddling me like I'm a frail old man."

Lo Jun approached him with a smile. He took the reports from her outstretched hand without looking and placed them aside on the tabletop.

"Any more urgent news?"

"A raven from the Wall," she replied. "The Lord Commander Jeor Mormont is dead." Stannis made a sound in surprise.

"I always thought the only thing that would kill Mormont was his shame over his criminal son."

"There is more," Lo Jun said, making a mental note to later ask Shireen—with her endless store of knowledge concerning the Seven Kingdoms—about the history between Jeor Mormont and his son. "Maester Aemon requests aid—he writes that an attack is imminent, and that the Wall will fall unless more men are sent."

The king was quiet for a moment. "Not terribly concerning. If that disorganized rabble of wildlings ever do breach the Wall—and they never have, mind you, not in force—they will be pushed back by the northmen. Not even Roose Bolton would forsake that duty, traitor though he may be."

"It is not the wildlings that the maester fears," she ventured hesitantly. "It is… something else."

Annoyance made him frown. " _What_ else?" he demanded.

She knew it sounded ridiculous, but there was no better way to say it. "The letter speaks of the dead rising, commanded by demons of ice and snow that are almost impossible to destroy. Several of the Night's Watch have seen them—and one man apparently killed one. They call them the White Walkers." In her mind, Melisandre's ominous words echoed: _the true threat lies to the North_. Lo Jun suppressed a shudder.

"'Winter is coming,' is it? Ned Stark must be turning over in his grave." From his reaction, Stannis did not seem impressed, but nonetheless he pulled the message from the pile and began to read.

A gentle breeze carried through the large open window, lifting the thin red and blue silk curtains with which someone had earlier decorated the room. Bathed in the soft glow of sunlight, the scene seemed almost idyllic—here was the king, finally at ease amidst his duties, his legs splayed out carelessly before him as he worked. He had even bathed at some point, at long last washing off the dirt and grime from the long months of travel and fighting.

In fact, Stannis seemed almost naked to her, and she tried not to stare. He had discarded the heavy leather and brocade he usually wore, which she always imagined was too hot for this southern weather and much too restrictive. Instead, he was dressed in a plain black tunic, his left sleeve rolled up to partially reveal the angry red wound he had sustained in the battle near Horn Hill. It no longer bled, but it was still quite clearly a good ways from fully healing—a fact that undoubtedly bothered the king. There was a roll of bandage sitting beside him on the table amidst the maps and other clutter, apparently forgotten and likely abandoned when Stannis tossed the maester out. She picked it up.

"Did you dismiss Maester Wysin before he could finish putting you back together?" Stannis scowled at her quickly over the top of Maester Aemon's letter.

"I'm not falling apart."

"All the same. Perhaps it is best to wrap the wound to keep it clean."

"Are you a healer now as well as a spy?" His frown did not disappear, but the tension at the corners of his eyes and mouth eased. He was teasing her, although his attention had returned to the letter. She let a small, pleased smile blossom, unseen.

"No," she replied, unable to keep the warmth from her voice. "But I am a very good learner."

He did not respond, but shifted his left arm so that she could more easily wrap the bandage around it. Carefully, she rolled his sleeve further up to expose the entirety of the injury, and secured the fabric above his shoulder with an extra hairpin. With gentle hands, she unrolled the clean white cloth around his arm—it was certainly no masterpiece to marvel at, but it did what was necessary. Once finished, she fastened the loose ends together in a tight, neat knot, but could not resist the urge to tie it all off with a rather pretty, albeit small, bow at the back where he could not see.

Stannis paused from his reading to inspect her handiwork. Lo Jun waited, her hands clasped demurely in front of her, oddly anxious for his reaction. The king grunted in grudging approval, and she felt an irresistible smile returning.

"Perhaps I should have you replace Wysin as maester," he murmured. She chuckled.

"You certainly enjoy my attentions more."

She had meant it only as a continuation of their lighthearted jesting, but Stannis fell silent with a troubled look. Lo Jun's spirits tumbled. She had overestimated how much Stannis might acknowledge their unspoken mutual desire, regardless of the fact that he still possessed the earring she had given him as a token. She felt suddenly unsure—it _was_ mutual, was it not? The king did not strike her as the type of man who would indulge flirtations, particularly those devoid of true feeling, but there was always a chance she was wrong. The earring was a tiny thing, after all; a far cry from open recognition of what lay between the two of them. She turned her face away in frustrated shame, fixing her gaze instead on the sparkling waters of the Honeywine River visible from the windows.

"I don't know much about… affection," Stannis finally said, and she reluctantly glanced back to him. He was studying the ground as if the stone floor held answers he sought. "But I do have great fondness for you." His blue eyes, dark like the bottomless sea, lifted to meet hers, and she felt as if she could see in them the entire world.

"You asked me before what I wanted," he continued. She stood frozen like stone, rooted to the floor. It took great effort to nod—it seemed words had abandoned her entirely. The corner of his mouth curled up wryly, half of a rare smile. It was like seeing a desert flower bloom. "I should think that in this case, it's fairly evident."

Lo Jun was still working out a response— _any_ kind of response—when a shy, uncertain voice emerged from the doorway.

"Father?" Shireen stood at the entrance to Stannis' solar, wearing a fresh green dress and an expression that did not quite conceal her hopefulness. "Do you mind if I sit here with you a while? Mother and the Red Woman are praying, and, well…" Her voice trailed off. There was no real need to continue that sentence, not with Stannis' responding grimace and Lo Jun's carefully blank expression. The king said nothing, and Shireen wisely interpreted his silence as permission to perch herself on an empty chair and begin inspecting the maps laid out on the table.

It was painfully obvious that the girl was bored, even though she tried her hardest to hide it lest someone think she was ungrateful for having been allowed to accompany her father on his march to reclaim the Iron Throne. There was only so much to occupy a curious mind on a long march like they had done—books were heavy, and Shireen had no doubt already read several times through all of the few tomes she was allowed to carry with her. Lo Jun felt a little guilty for prioritizing her other duties over the princess—even though Stannis no longer asked Lo Jun to tutor Shireen, Lo Jun did not want the girl to think she was no longer important.

"Come," she told the girl, holding out a hand. "Brightwater Keep is only the third castle I have seen in the Seven Kingdoms. We will practice your arithmetic as we walk, and you can show me what you have explored these last few days. My father always said the mind works best during exercise."

Shireen's face lit up and she nearly dragged Lo Jun to the door. As she allowed herself to be pulled along, Lo Jun glanced instinctively back to Stannis, who watched them go with a ghost of a smile. His expression tugged painfully at her heart. _This is not your family_ , she reminded herself firmly. _You are still a subject here, no more_. Lo Jun turned her face from her king, instead fixing her eyes on Shireen's flying braids as the girl skipped ahead.

Indeed, it did not take long before Lo Jun forgot her melancholy. Shireen was like the first flower of spring, turning her innocent face to the sun as if she had not seen the light in many long months. The girl did not exactly chatter, but if Lo Jun did not keep her occupied with numbers calculations or recitations of history, Shireen would ask a stream of shrewd—if not somewhat unnerving—questions of her own about her father's war and the strategic choices Stannis faced. Lo Jun found it a shame that the princess had never before been allowed to experience life outside of Dragonstone—Shireen soaked her surroundings up like a sponge, hungry for new experiences in the way only a forgotten child could be.

The sun was setting when they found themselves in a quiet corner of the Keep, sharing a piece of fruitcake earlier stolen from the kitchens thanks to Lo Jun's nimble, sticky fingers. Lo Jun could not keep a slightly wicked smile from her face as she watched Shireen swing her feet, munching in delight on the sweet cake. The YiTish woman was undoubtedly not an ideal role model for a young princess, with all of her encouragement of casual thievery and other unladylike pursuits. But as it turned out, Shireen was the one who greased the wheels, as the saying went—when confronted by other servants, the young girl was the one with the golden tongue, whose innocent looks and sweet words swayed even the cantankerous Maester Wysin.

Too bad the girl's family treated her like a dirty secret. She would have made a fantastic spy in the Emperor's court.

Finished with the cake, Shireen licked her fingers and hopped off the large chest she had been using as a seat.

"I smell the kitchen fires," she told Lo Jun. "It must be time for supper. I wonder if they'll have my favorite meat pies again? I asked the cooks last night but they wouldn't tell me."

The scent of burning wood reached Lo Jun's nose, and her stomach rumbled in response to Shireen's suggestion of meat pies despite the pilfered dessert she had just eaten. After so many long weeks of hard travel, Lo Jun felt like something of a glutton when she ate the meals prepared by Brightwater Keep's many cooks—she had to remind herself that eating more now would not prevent hunger later, if food ever became scarce again.

Shireen skipped ahead, only to pause suddenly once they turned the far corner.

The hallway before them was filled with smoke, a gray haze that billowed from the crack under the adjacent door that led down towards the kitchens. Reflexively, Lo Jun pulled Shireen closer. Her first thought was that a fire here was less dangerous than in Yi Ti—the castles here were made of stone and brick, not wood and paper like the fragile palaces of the elite back in her home country. These fortresses were built solidly to withstand the wrath of even gods. Surely they would come to no harm.

But still, a fire was a fire, and she could not ignore the instinctive fright she felt, like an animal trapped in a burning forest. It took all of her willpower not to bolt wildly for the other set of doors and flee. Showing panic would only distress Shireen, after all, and Lo Jun did not want the girl to be afraid—she tried a kind smile as she urged the princess away from the kitchens.

"I am sure it is nothing serious," Lo Jun lied, certain that no small kitchen fire would send so much smoke up four flights of stairs. All the same, she tore a handkerchief in half and passed a portion to the girl, hoping to save them both from breathing the foulness in the air. Smoke chased them as they hurried through the winding hallways, heading for the closest exit—a small exterior garden normally attended by a sleepy guard who Shireen had earlier said was easily bribed with wine and cheese.

There was no guard there now. Faint echoes of frightened shouts from servants and others reached Lo Jun's ears, confirming her worry of a larger, more dangerous blaze.

They were almost to the exterior doors when Lo Jun paused. Unbidden, images raced through her mind of the stack of papers containing all the knowledge she had assembled over the past few weeks. She could not leave that to burn—it was her life's work and irreplaceable, especially since half of her sources followed their fortunes and may well have left Brightwater Keep by this point.

But her papers were on the other side of the castle, and she did not know how far the flames had spread. Shireen tugged at her sleeve with understandable urgency. She, too, was trying to be brave, but she was still a child and far less accustomed to hiding her true feelings. Lo Jun nudged the girl gently towards the door that led to fresh air and safety, trying not to think too hard about the foolishness she herself was about to attempt.

"Run," Lo Jun coughed to Shireen. "Find your father." The thick black smoke had collected in her nose and throat, choking her despite the fabric she held against her face. Shireen hesitated, and this time Lo Jun pushed the girl firmly. " _Run_ ," she repeated, this time shouting with all of the force she could muster.

Shireen bolted, her skirts flying as she dashed for the door. Lo Jun waited only long enough to see the princess disappear outside before turning back.

This part of the castle—where her rooms were located—was truly ablaze. Cinders danced in the hot air, cast off by smoldering wooden furniture and thick carpets that the flames were all too eager to consume. Lo Jun made it halfway through that hellish landscape before admitting defeat—she could not press on, and had risked her life quite enough for this folly as it was. What in all the divine realms was she thinking? She was no heroine, no valiant, selfless lady ready to die for the sake of her cause—she was just Lo Jun, survivalist, better at saving her own life than anyone else had been so far at depriving her of it. She needed to find her way out before she died for her momentary stupidity.

How embarrassing that would be.

But the fire had spread, blocking off the way she had come with a roaring inferno that raced to devour every flammable thing. She had no choice but to make for the only route left open, compelled to take turn after turn that she could only hope would bring her closer to an exit—any exit—that did not involve a long drop out of a window. She began to despair.

The flames that were beginning to envelop the room into which she had just stepped also partially illuminated the only corridor left before her, but the smoke that had gathered within the passage was so thick it obscured anything beyond a few feet. Tendrils of black drifted lazily, curling as the fire blew scorching air at random. Lo Jun paused at the threshold, an inexplicable sense of dread suddenly sitting heavy and foul in the pit of her stomach. Some unspoken instinct warned her in no uncertain terms to stay away from that ominous hallway, but there was nowhere else to go—the heat against her back was now oppressive, and small tongues of fire licked at her boots.

 _It's just darkness_ , Lo Jun told herself firmly. She was not a child, and she would not be afraid of the dark.

She hurried forward, determined to make it to the door on the opposite side. It only took a few paces before the light faded almost completely and the darkness encased her—again she pushed her fear away, but it swelled back up almost immediately. It felt as if a thousand eyes watched her hungrily, and out of the corner of her eye she imagined could see the smoke swirling unnaturally, matching every harried step she took.

There was something there. She turned to fix her attention on the undulating darkness, the back of her neck prickling in the absolute certainty that she was not alone.

Claws made of smoke and shadow sank into her shoulders, and she screamed. All thoughts save escape fled from her mind—she tore away from the demons that howled soundlessly back at her and darted down the hallway. Tortured, shrieking faces and cruel talons materialized in the smoke on all sides, closing in like hounds on cornered prey. She struck out when one came too near, but her fists passed through the ghostly bodies even as the knives they formed slashed into her. The small part of her mind not concerned primarily with fleeing railed furiously against the unfairness—she could not strike her assailants, but they could wound her and did so with apparently gleeful abandon. All she could do was hunch over the cloth that protected her airway and run, pressing forward despite the claws that hooked themselves into her skin and clothes to pull her back into the darkness. Her only thought now was to reach the door on the far side of the corridor—even if an inferno raged beyond, she would throw herself into it rather than remain.

Wet coughs wracked her body, forcing her to slow. It became too difficult to breathe with the cloth bundled around her nose and mouth, so she pulled it away. For a surreal moment, she stared down at the bright red that bloomed against the once-white cloth, but the blood there was no illusion—she could taste it, harshly metallic against the soot that already coated the inside of her mouth. And still, the piercing grasp of the demons in the smoke did not relent—she dashed once more for the door, spurred on like a horse lashed by its rider's merciless whip. Her outstretched hands met the firm wood that stood between death and salvation and she pulled the heavy iron ring to open it, ignoring the way her muscles cried out in pain.

Lo Jun slipped through the tiny opening she had made and forced the door closed behind her. This room was clear of the dense, overwhelming smoke that had gathered in the last corridor, but even as she started for the next exit she could see wisps of darkness begin to seep through the cracks in the door—whatever spirits they were, they followed.

Halfway across the room, she staggered and fell, tripping over her own unexpectedly clumsy and uncoordinated feet. The rough stone floor sent a fresh jolt of pain like lightning through her mind as her knees met the ground; she crouched on all fours, gasping desperately for air. Her mind felt swaddled in thick fog, and she watched the rivulets of blood that ran down her arms pool slowly around her palms with hardly any comprehension. It did not seem right to her—maybe she needed to find the maester before she bled out. But she could no longer breathe.

Perhaps that was alright. She just needed to rest for a moment, and catch her wind. Maybe if she closed her eyes, she would feel better…

The door before her swung open suddenly and she looked up with dull eyes, fully expecting to see the smoke beyond crystallize into another demon made of shadow. It would not have mattered—she could not run any more. A violent death at the hands of the nightmares that pursued her would at least be quicker than suffocating alone. She only hoped that Shireen and Davos had not similarly been hunted down—or Stannis.

Yet it was Stannis who stood there, wreathed in smoke and flame, one hand wrapped in his cloak as a barrier against the flying embers. She looked up at him in plain wonder from where she had collapsed to the ground, her mouth hanging open as she struggled to breathe like a fish pulled from water. He seemed so tall, so powerful, so solid—the very embodiment of the life she had moments ago utterly accepted leaving. In her eyes, then, he was a god.

He hauled her upright with the strength of a man half his age, her body flopping like a rag doll as he half-dragged her away. Her feet seemed too slow to respond, her legs like cooked noodles that wobbled and gave way each time she sought to take a step. It struck her as unfair to make Stannis—injured he as also was, she remembered—do all the work, but every time she tried to match his long strides, her body only impeded both their progress. She settled for being unceremoniously towed by the king through the smoldering embers, trusting him to deliver them both to shelter.

Stannis put his shoulder to one last door and together they very nearly tumbled out into the fresh air of a minor empty courtyard. Somewhere nearby, bells clanged and men shouted, audible even above the cracking sounds of flames devouring the Keep. Clinging to Stannis' arm, Lo Jun found herself finally able to take a deep breath of clean air—she filled her lungs greedily, only to double over coughing uncontrollably once more.

And then she was suddenly in his arms, his fingers tangling themselves in her hair as his arms closed unthinkingly around her small frame. With her nose buried in his chest, she could smell the clean scent of soap from his body even through the fire smoke that clung to his clothes. Her breath rattled as she inhaled and she balled her fists tightly into his tunic, twisting the fabric to make doubly sure he was real. Relief washed over her like a wave, bringing hot tears to her eyes—he was here, and she was safe.

"Your Grace." They sprang apart like guilty young lovers, but fortunately it was only Davos. Wisely, the former smuggler pretended as if he had seen nothing, the worry on his face obscuring any other thoughts he might have had. "You found her."

Lo Jun looked back to Stannis, confused. He had been looking for her?

 _Of course he'd been looking for you_ , snapped the part of her brain that still worked, _why else would the_ king _be wandering around a burning castle?_

 _Well, he could have been looking for his daughter_ —

"Shireen," she croaked, her hands at her throat. Davos reached out to steady her elbow.

"Easy," Davos cautioned. "The princess is safe. She sounded the alarm. Almost went back to look for you herself, actually." He smiled kindly at Lo Jun, who struggled against the tears that threatened to renew themselves.

"She needs the maester," Stannis grated, his voice similarly hoarse from the smoke. Davos pulled his hand away from Lo Jun's arm, startled to find it covered in blood. She started to shiver as she watched him, sensation swiftly returning to the wounds on her back and arms. No longer preoccupied with her terrible flight for survival, her body began to remind her—loudly—of the injuries she had sustained. She could not bring herself to twist around to see them, but it felt as if every inch of her flesh had been stripped from her bones.

"I'll fetch him," said Davos, but she barely noticed his swift departure.

"What happened?" Stannis asked her, his fingers tucked gently beneath her chin. She remained mute, staring at him with eyes as wide as saucers—even if she truly understood what had transpired, physically she could not summon the words to reply. The king grunted.

"Lucky thing Melisandre was nearby, or I would not have found you."

Melisandre. The Red Priestess. The _shadowbinder_.

Fresh terror gripped Lo Jun and she took a step back, her eyes fixed on Stannis' stern, proud face. Darkness swam at the edges of her vision as the blood rushed irreversibly from her head, and she felt herself go pale. Helplessly, her legs folded. The last thing she saw was Stannis reaching for her, his alarmed expression making her feel suddenly, inexplicably guilty.

 _Oh_ , she thought, but it was too late to say anything, _I'm sorry to go_.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

Stannis Baratheon once thought that there was nothing so painful as watching triumph crumble amidst smoke and flame. He was beyond dismayed to discover that he was so very wrong.

The second time was much, much worse.

Brightwater Keep was a ruin. The flames had consumed everything, from the smallest bolt of cloth to the heaviest tables and thick, sturdy doors. The Keep itself was no real fortress—it was built for beauty, not to withstand a raging inferno. By the time the fire reached the wooden beams that supported the walls and roofs, the building began to collapse in on itself, taking with it the lives of those unfortunate enough to be trapped inside. Dozens had perished, mostly smallfolk caught unawares. A few of Stannis' knights had also gone missing, presumably incinerated as well. There was no real way to tell, after all, beyond an ever-changing headcount. The ashes of one man looked the same as any other.

The servants reported that the fire had started in the kitchens, or at least somewhere near there. No one could explain why the blaze had spiraled so quickly out of control, or why it was not contained or even detected earlier. He had ordered his bannermen to be on guard against saboteurs, but beyond casting suspicious looks at each other—or more typically, at the YiTish—his men knew little of weeding out spies and secret enemies. Whispers had begun to spread that the fire was a sign of displeasure from the Lord of Light—Stannis had not heeded the Lady Melisandre's warning about the North, and now the God had stripped choice away from the King.

He did not want to consider it, but it was hard not to see some kernel of truth in the rumors. Even though Melisandre had not yet spoken to him about her prophecies, Stannis could see the sanctimonious gleam in her eyes when she looked to him over the holy flames she cradled in the braziers that filled her tent. Her earlier words haunted him—once again, he had not heeded her visions, and once again, he had lost almost everything. Was it worth the price to save the Florents from the Tyrells? Certainly his march—and his victories—had swelled his ranks with opportunists who thought it best to throw their lot in with the winning side, but how long would they stay now that their safest refuge in the still-hostile Reach was a blackened, smoking ruin? How long before they abandoned the cursed king?

Stannis found himself believing without ever really realizing it.

He hated prophecies. He put no faith in gods. But what was a godless man to do when faced with a string of divinations from a priestess whose word invariably seemed to come true? The Red Woman was always right, and only a fool would continue to disregard her word. If he had listened, perhaps he would have won the Battle of Blackwater. If he had listened, perhaps Brightwater Keep would still stand.

If he had listened, perhaps Lo Jun would not be laying unconscious in a tent, for all intents and purposes dead to the world and the misery that surrounded her.

Brightwater Keep's feckless maester had turned his nose up at the suggestion that he care for a foreigner, much less a foreign woman, regardless of the severity of her injuries. It seemed Davos changed Wysin's obstinate mind by reminding him of Stannis' short patience and harsh justice, but by that time the king had already decided he wanted the sorry excuse for a maester nowhere near Lo Jun. Stannis did not trust Wysin to utilize all his abilities to save the spymaster—Wysin was the type of man who would feign compliance but in truth sacrifice the duties of his profession for the sake of his misguided beliefs.

Instead, and much to Stannis' surprise, it was Melisandre who stepped in to care for Lo Jun. The priestess administered the ugly wounds with a practiced hand, but never responded when he asked where she had learned the healing arts. Perhaps it was something she simply had to know in order to properly serve a fire god—Stannis imagined the followers of the Lord of Light were no strangers to burns or the dangers of breathing smoke. Still, he watched curiously as Melisandre sewed shut the cruel, deep gashes that striped Lo Jun's back and arms, wondering if the priestess was also somehow familiar with lion attacks or bear maulings.

"The Lord of Light is not finished with her yet," the priestess told him that first day after the fire, rising from a moment of silence spent listening to the rattle of breath in Lo Jun's lungs. The relief he felt must have been plain on his face, because Melisandre had smiled at him coyly with knowing eyes— _found someone new to_ want _, my Lord?_ She had left him feeling embarrassed and angry and confused, unable to look anywhere else except at Lo Jun's sleeping form.

He sat there for more hours than was necessary, and far more than was proper. He was there when her breathing slowed and evened, no longer struggling for air now that the smoke had been driven from her chest. He was there when she sighed in her sleep, murmuring something in a language he did not know but suddenly wished he could understand. He was there when her eyes opened briefly one morning, caught sight of him, and then closed again, as if content to find him there keeping watch.

 _Your duty is to your wife_ , his rational mind would occasionally admonish, and he would silence it each time by justifying to himself that Lo Jun was technically part of the sorry excuse for his Small Council, and as such he needed to be sure of her recovery. It was what he told Davos, at any rate, when the old smuggler poked his head in through the tent flaps for the hundredth time. Spoken out loud, the excuses sounded lame, a pathetic attempt to cover up the betrayal he was coming so close to committing once more.

He knew, without truly and consciously acknowledging it, that he was simply in denial. It was just too uncomfortable a topic to muse on—he was not a man given to acute introspection, especially not when it concerned his weaknesses. The longer he lingered, however, the harder it was to keep up the charade, at least in his own mind. In truth, he was there because he needed to be—because he needed to see for himself that Lo Jun still lived, to ensure that the first thing she saw when she truly woke was him, and none other.

 _What is it you want, Your Grace?_ If only he'd had the courage to whisper, _you_.

The pain in his heart was an unfamiliar thing. Decades had passed since he thought he had settled on considering romantic love to be a fantasy for the naïve or the deluded. The disappointment that was his marriage to Selyse was proof positive of that, after all—he married her because Robert required it, and it was Stannis' duty as second-born to obey the oldest Baratheon. There was no love there—indeed, there was nothing there at all save cool disdain. Stannis knew he loved Shireen, but she was his daughter and most importantly his only surviving heir—he would have protected her even if he did not love her, or else he would lose any hope of a legacy that continued past his own inevitable demise.

But this? This was different. Was this what Robert felt when he lost the Stark girl? Stannis had always thought his brother weak-hearted for being so broken by Lyanna's kidnapping, but now he was not so sure.

He felt decades older when he finally regained his senses enough to remember his other responsibilities and reluctantly left Lo Jun's tent. The YiTish sellswords seated outside on overturned boxes were gnawing like the barbarians they were on the bones of some greasy animal while pointedly ignoring him—they lurked like guards trying not to seem too obvious about their duty, and he pondered briefly whether they had run off the Westerosi men who had initially been posted there.

As he watched them, one spat a clean sliver of bone onto the dirt—perhaps deliberately—and Stannis turned away, disgusted. The sight of his Hand approaching was a welcome one, although Davos Seaworth looked far more harassed than usual. Crooking two fingers, the king beckoned Davos to walk with him towards the royal tent.

"Your Grace," the former smuggler said apologetically, his tone all but spelling out ill news as he fell in step alongside his liege. Stannis felt himself beginning to scowl preemptively.

"The Redwynes have sent part of their river fleet up the Honeywine," Davos informed him, holding a scrap of parchment between the nubs of his mutilated fingers. "One of Lo Jun's informants sent word from Oldtown that the ships sailed through the Whispering Sound, twenty-four total, each carrying a full contingent of men." The Redwynes. Twenty-four galleys with eighty men each—nearly two thousand men were headed for him, and now he had no castle walls to hide behind when the catapults began to bombard his army from the safety of the river. The only comfort he could take was that the river was too narrow here and too shallow to fit two-dozen ships at once. Some would have to hang back and likely offload their men downriver to attack on foot—that is, if he lasted long enough for that to be necessary. He might have the numerical superiority, but that would not last long after being crushed by stones flung from unassailable catapults. _Will the gods never let me rest?_

"Where'd you get this news?" he demanded. For all he knew, Lo Jun's papers had apparently disintegrated in the fire that consumed Brightwater Keep, and he had not thought to task anyone else with her responsibilities since. It was not entirely an oversight on his part, if he was being honest—a large part of him refused to even consider the possibility that she would not recover and resume work as his Master of Whispers.

"With Lo Jun… unavailable, I took it upon myself to receive and sort her correspondence." Davos seemed embarrassed by this, as if he was unsure of how his intentions would be perceived. With anyone else, Stannis would almost certainly have suspected ulterior motives, but this was Davos Seaworth, and there was no one less ambitious in all the Seven Kingdoms. "It's good reading practice," muttered the former smuggler, almost too low for the king to hear. Stannis snorted despite himself. With one hand, he tossed open the heavy flap of his tent.

Selyse was sitting primly on a sturdy chair in the middle of the floor, her thin hands folded carefully across her lap. Her hard face was a pale shape floating in the half-light inside the tent, a stark, ghostly contrast to the dark hair that hung limply around her face. The heat and humidity of the Reach did her no favors, for all she was born and raised there—her skin was beaded with tiny droplets of sweat, and she looked even more drained than usual. Stannis had actively avoided her during the march across the stormlands. The pressures of command had given him a convenient excuse for his absence, and he had grown rather happily accustomed to it.

His heart sank.

"Send the Red Woman and Lo Shan's warlock to me," he instructed Davos, who gave his king a short bow and beat a hasty retreat. Stannis did not look at his wife as he crossed the straw floor to the table where his charred maps were laid out, rescued from the recent fire.

"Where have you been, my Lord?" Her question was a knife, an accusation more than an honest query. She knew where he was spending his time. She was right to disapprove.

He gritted his teeth before responding. "Busy with the war," he responded. It was not entirely a lie. He fixed his eyes on the mapped details of the Honeywine River, following its twists up from the Whispering Sound to where he and his vulnerable army were now encamped.

"You've been with that foreign woman." She denounced him as she would a traitor to the realm, her head held high in moral righteousness. He looked up at her sharply, angry with her for being right, angry with himself for being a fool, angry with the world for being the way it was.

"I have not betrayed you again," he snarled at her. _Maybe not in body_ , he realized, _but what about in soul?_ Was that not more important? Selyse did not recoil from his wrath like usual, which only added a fresh layer to his ire. "You may not have seen any sin in my last transgression, but I at least regret not honoring my vows."

Her face flushed. "That was different," she snapped back. "The Lady Melisandre gave herself to you in service to the Lord of Light. You are His Chosen One, and… _laying_ with His priestess to achieve the one true God's plans was no sin."

Stannis laughed—a harsh, cruel sound. In that instant, he had had enough of her delusions regarding the Lord of Light. "You think I didn't enjoy it, do you? That I didn't want the Red Woman, just like I've never wanted you, and you've never wanted me?" Now Selyse flinched as if struck, her thin lips parting in shock. He watched her with open dislike, certain it was an act—she made no secret of her distaste for him, although he had never confronted her about it before now. They had merely done what was expected of them, regardless of their personal feelings. "I wanted the priestess, my Lady—I desired her. I never cared about what the Lord of Light planned for me when I bedded her. It was sin, through and through, no matter what lies the Red Woman fed you."

There, the ugly truth. He should have said it outright the first time he confessed to his wife, but she had given him an escape and he had taken it like a coward.

"It was your duty—" she stuttered, one trembling hand at her throat.

"It was never my duty to betray you," he said, more gently this time. It was not her fault that he never admitted this to her. "And I have not done so since."

Selyse stared at him for a long moment.

"She has corrupted you," she said hoarsely at last. Stannis drew a deep breath in resignation, closing his eyes against the headache that threatened to descend. He did not need to guess who 'she' was. Perhaps it would have been better to leave his wife to her misbeliefs. No doubt they had comforted her as a way to cope with the unthinkable.

"You must send her away," Selyse said firmly, and he turned away from her as she stood. "I demand it, as your wife. Otherwise, you disgrace me, and yourself, with your actions."

If he refused, he would deny her a right she did indeed possess. If he agreed, he knew losing Lo Jun would be akin to losing a limb, and not only in terms of her usefulness in his campaign. Either way, he would hate himself for it.

By some stroke of luck, it was then that Rithipol Sarey lifted the flap to Stannis' tent to admit himself and the Lady Melisandre. The Red Priestess did not seem surprised to see Selyse there, and the small, knowing smile she turned on Stannis made him suspect how much of this confrontation was Selyse's own initiative. Rithipol Sarey, on the other hand, merely bowed politely to the queen, his strange blue-tinted features arranged into an expression of pure disinterest.

Selyse remained just long enough to fix her husband with a pointed, regal look before leaving. Stannis had the dismayed sense he had just lost a protracted battle.

"A fleet approaches," he told the two sorcerers before him, putting his wife out of his mind for now. He could delay a decision on the demand she had given him as long as the Redwynes remained a threat—survival was the foremost concern, not domestic squabbles. "We won't survive if they're allowed to anchor and attack from the river where my army cannot reach."

Rithipol Sarey made a humming noise. "If I may, Your Grace," he said, his peculiar rasping voice sending an involuntary shiver down Stannis' spine, "I have a solution to this little problem." Stannis gestured for him to continue, and the warlock gave him a small, polite nod of the head.

"Many years ago, a vast fleet of raiders came to my home city of Qarth seeking to take advantage of our peaceful trading natures and famed vast wealth. They knew we were vulnerable with the Pureborn fleet away at the time, so they threatened to flatten the city block by block every hour if the city did not capitulate. There was a particularly talented, albeit vindictive, young warlock, who felt destroying the pirates was not punishment enough for their audacity. Instead, he devised a spell to trap the mind, sowing confusion and turning the pirates against each other." Rithipol Sarey smiled slightly at the king. "I believe this spell would be particularly useful here—unless I have incorrectly guessed the winds of fate and you do not have a need for ships after all."

Stannis scowled darkly, but the strange man had a point. Leaving the ships intact would indeed be necessary if ultimately he chose to head to the Wall rather than continue to campaign in the Reach.

Was he ready to forsake the victories he'd had in the South? Was his defeat of the Tyrell boy enough to justify remaining when it seemed now there was finally a reason—a true need—to go north? Was he confident enough in his distrust of all gods to forsake the dire message from the Red Priestess once again?

Stannis was not sure. The fate of the Seven Kingdoms hung in the balance in more ways than one, and his wrong decision could doom them all.

"It is not a spell for one alone—I cannot perform this work alone." The warlock turned rueful eyes to Melisandre, who eyed him warily like a cat watching a large and unfamiliar dog. "Luckily, I am more than confident the Lady Melisandre can assist me, if she agrees. As I said before, after all, I am eager to witness firsthand a demonstration of the great power given by the Lord of Light." Stannis was hardly deaf and blind—it was obvious Rithipol Sarey sought to bait the priestess, and the king deliberated for a moment whether it was wise to allow a sorcerous challenge to proceed. Stannis understood nothing of magic, and if anything feared what dark forces might be unleashed, but he was a practical man who used the best tools available to him regardless of his own misgivings.

"The Lord does not need to prove His power," the priestess said stiffly. At her throat, the ruby gleamed with a strange menace—a subtle warning that she was not without claws.

"Ah," the pale man replied sadly, bowing his head and shoulders slightly in deference. "I apologize; I ask too much of His servant. To be true, the type of magic necessary in this case would be a great working. It would be a tragedy if the power granted by the Lord of Light destroyed His vessel. Lady Priestess, I humbly ask that you refrain from acquiescing to my request—it would be such a _shame_ if something were to happen to you."

"You are anything but _humble_ ," hissed Melisandre. There was nothing beautiful now about the expression on her face. An ugly fury warped her porcelain features into something sinister, and Stannis had the unexpected feeling that the alluring glamor with which the priestess normally presented herself was simply that—an illusion masking something much darker, much more dangerous beneath.

The thought repulsed him. He turned away, tired of the bickering and the manipulation, longing for the straightforward battles he fought so well. _Give me steel and an opponent on an open field—spare me the dirty politics_. Now he understood why Robert had been such a terrible king. The only difference between them was Stannis' ability to swallow the bitter gristle that was governance, while Robert merely spat it out for someone else to digest.

"My Lord." It was Melisandre who spoke, her voice once again sweet. He felt her touch on his arm like a brand, pulling him back into her grasp like some terrible Greyjoy kraken rising out of the deep. He did not look at her, and instead clenched his jaw tighter as he stared down at the burnt and blackened edges of the maps on his desk.

"I would not presume to speak for the King," said Rithipol Sarey, "But I am certain he is desirous of your safety as well."

"You do indeed presume," Stannis finally snapped. "I speak for myself. Remember your place, warlock." Chastened, Rithipol Sarey folded his long, thin body into a deep bow by way of apology, his voluminous, heavily embroidered sleeves brushing the dirt. Stannis glanced at Melisandre with a frown. "If you can't work this magic, then do not tax yourself. I need your visions to guide me north more, and I'm confident in Rithipol Sarey's demonstrated abilities."

Stannis knew it was an insult to her power, but it was the harsh truth and he had no time or desire to soothe anyone's ego. He disliked relying too heavily on magic, but it seemed time after time that his hands would otherwise be tied. The gods had spoken, apparently, and he must go north to save the Seven Kingdoms—and if she and the old maester at the Wall were correct, the king would need all the help her flames could provide in order to stand fast against the coming winter.

There was no mistaking the imperious look she gave him, her chin lifted high in disdainful pride.

"A feat like this will be child's play for a servant of the Lord of Light."

He could have commanded her to stand aside and let Rithipol Sarey do what he could on his own rather than overstretch herself. But the more he stared at her, the more he realized: he did not care.

It was freeing.

"Then tell me when you are ready," he said finally, returning to his maps. "And we will begin."

Rithipol Sarey left like a wisp of smoke, gone so quickly it almost seemed as if he evaporated into the air. Stannis heard Melisandre draw a calm breath.

"Have you finally decided to heed the Lord of Light, then?" she asked him. He felt rather than saw her move close.

"I'm not convinced I should abandon the Reach to the Tyrells. I would be the King Who Ran."

A flame leapt to life in the brazier by his desk. Alarmed, he drew back, only to feel Melisandre's hand on his back. The fire grew as she approached, licking the sides of the iron that contained it as if it hungered for her.

"You did not yet allow me to show you what I saw in the fire, my Lord," she murmured. Despite the aversion he felt towards having her physically so near, he could not help but stare into the dancing flames. The brightness left spots in his vision, forming the ghosts of images that steadily darkened the longer he watched. Scenes of death, of cold and winter and horror beyond imagination filled his mind—he gasped at the weight of it, overcome with a dread and a hopelessness that he had never before experienced, not even when facing certain death by starvation during Robert's Rebellion. He trembled, forgetting that Melisandre stood at his side, her hands clasping his shoulders as she looked with him into the fire.

"This is what awaits the Seven Kingdoms if you do not save the North," she breathed, and he was afraid. "You are the Chosen One—the only man who can save us all from the terrible fate that comes sweeping down with a vengeance." Her grip tightened on him like claws. "Do you see it, my Lord?"

"Yes," he whispered, unable to keep the awe and fear from his voice. Melisandre's skin was cool compared to the searing heat he felt from the flames when she pressed her cheek to his ear.

"You must go North," she said, and he nodded his understanding as if in a dream. "You alone can save the Seven Kingdoms from the Long Night."

The fire dimmed abruptly, leaving him partially blind as the terrible scenes faded. Stannis blinked rapidly, hoping to chase them more quickly from his sight. When his vision finally cleared, he was alone in his tent save for the agonizing, horrible certainty that his path was chosen for him—that he had never truly had a choice, not now, not ever.

After a few sweating moments spent gathering his wits, remembering how to breathe properly, and cursing the existence of sorcery, he fled his tent for the only solid comfort he knew. If the men he passed noticed that he was pale and shaking, they chose not to show it. Only the YiTish mercenaries outside Lo Jun's tent gave him any meaningful look, fixing him with pointedly blank stares that bordered on the insolent from where they lounged. He ignored them in equal measure as he pushed the dusty canvas aside to find his spymaster awake at last.

She was sitting up in the cot, clearly surprised at his sudden intrusion, clutching the blankets to her bare chest and staring at him with eyes as dark as the empty night sky.

He stood there awkwardly, suddenly unsure of what to say or where to look. It dawned on him that Lo Jun had not cried out for modesty's sake, nor had she sent him away with the expected indignation of a lady caught half-naked—if one considered blankets to be clothing, that is—by her liege lord.

He watched, fascinated, as she swallowed, and he felt something stir in his chest and in his loins.

Suddenly anxious for a reason he could not quite name—or perhaps did not want to think too hard about—he dragged his gaze away from the lovely golden skin of her neck and shoulders, and drew an unsteady breath.

The rustle of cloth pulled his attention back to Lo Jun. He was both relieved and utterly disappointed to see her drape a second sheet loosely around her shoulders, covered, he knew, only for modesty's sake. From the wince she tried to hide once the sheet settled, he imagined it pained her to have anything touch the wounds on her back—he almost told her to take it off, but there were others outside within earshot of the thin tent walls, and he was too exhausted to test his self-control at this moment.

Their eyes met as he struggled with desire and duty. He could hardly have forgotten Selyse's earlier words, after all, regardless of the impending Redwyne threat or the visions Melisandre showed him.

"I owe you my life," Lo Jun whispered. It clearly took her some effort to push the words out through her injured lungs and throat.

"A life for a life," he replied. "You kept me from falling into the sea at the Blackwater." Stannis was no Lannister, but even he did not forget his debts. She looked amused at first that he remembered, and then troubled, as if this was insufficient.

"I am yours, Your Grace," she told him, twisting the fabric that covered her body in her hands. He was somewhat relieved, strangely, to see she was nervous.

"You've already sworn me your fealty," he reminded her gruffly.

"That was different," she said with a small smile, and he felt he would give almost anything to see another one. Her unspoken thoughts hung heavily in the air between them, and for once he had no trouble discerning what they were. Whatever her reasons were for following him before, she now offered him her heart, freely given. It was well-known that a brush with death always made men, and apparently even women, bolder—the only question was whether he was courageous enough to accept.

"Then tell me again," he said hoarsely. If he sounded desperate then, he did not mind. He did not want to face the terrible future of Melisandre's visions alone.

"I am yours," Lo Jun repeated quietly, and paused before adding, "Stannis."

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his body to remain still. His name on her lips was lightning through his body, a verbal caress.

"I cannot," he said finally, his voice like iron. He said it as much for himself as for her—a reminder of his own that he had a duty, regardless of how badly he had neglected it lately and as unpleasant as it might be. And still, he hated how strong he sounded, how certain—it was a lie forced upon them both. Stannis pitied her, to be trapped in this farce with him. When he opened his eyes, Lo Jun was looking back at him with a kind expression, and he knew she saw through him just as always.

"All the same," she responded, and he abruptly did not trust himself to stay any longer.

"Rest," he ordered her, turning to leave. He kept his fists clenched at his sides to conceal his trembling hands. There was only one thing left for him to do now, and already he regretted it far more than any other decision he had made in many long years. But Lo Jun left him no alternative—he almost resented her for voicing her love, for all he craved hearing it. If she had remained silent, perhaps they could have continued on pretending as if there was nothing improper between them, no unspoken desire that drew them together illicitly. But even that was a fantasy. It had only been a matter of time.

It was for the best.

* * *

 _A/N: Jon Snow does need a rescuer, after all, and who better than the One True King.  
_

 _Theeyeofanger: I know, but unfortunately if I wrote all the different characters' storylines this fic would never get finished. Maybe one day, but today is not that day!_

 _Cookie. Monster 67: Thanks so much! I agree, love at first sight is super boring. Lust at first sight, that I understand. Since Stannis is a bit of an emotional wasteland it'd be unrealistic for him to suddenly decide he's going to throw his duty out the window to chase a new skirt, haha._

 _El: Thank you! I think Selyse definitely used Melisandre's "magic priestess serving the god" bit as a way to cope with/rationalize her husband's betrayal, so she's having trouble accepting that this time there's nothing to excuse his actions and the only common denominator here is that they hate each other. Selyse will appear more later, too-she's not done yet!_

 _Nanouchy: Thanks a bunch! I'm glad you enjoyed it!_


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four

The Wall was magnificent.

There was really no better word for it, and if there was, Lo Jun did not know it. The YiTish had dozens of different flowery ways to describe great things, beautiful things, and imposing things, but in this case the poets did not have the truth of the matter. The Wall—and it was just that, no more, no less—was not something to be described with paragraphs of awed prose. It simply _was_ , like a mountain or a cliff, and the fewer words used conveyed all the more power for their presence.

As she rode the clanking elevator from the base of the Wall to the top, Lo Jun tried to compose a rather terrible poem about simplicity and the sheer wonder of this marvel of engineering. _Great shield of ice and snow…_ she snorted to herself at the childishness of her attempt. It was not nearly distracting enough to take her mind off the terrifying sensation of being laboriously winched to the top of the Wall. The metal cage in which she rode swayed dangerously and she clutched unhappily at the bars, fighting mild nausea at the thought of plummeting back down to the earth. Abandoning poetry, she put the heavy metal chain suspending her in the air firmly out of mind, and looked out over the rooftops of Castle Black where the fires from the recent battle had burned holes in the wooden shingles.

The main fortress was without a doubt a miserable place. Lo Jun had seen hard men before, riders from the YiTish Five Forts who came to the Imperial Court with fixed scowls and eyes that seemed to always be staring at something a thousand leagues away. The ladies of the Court had covered their noses and gossiped unkindly about those bad-mannered soldiers—they had come before the Emperor smelling of the road and death, and had not bothered to wash or dress appropriately for an audience with the God-on-Earth.

The surviving men of the Night's Watch struck Lo Jun as a similar breed. They were insular, suspicious of outsiders, and by and large still traumatized by the slaughter that had almost cost them all their lives. The hate many of them felt for the wildlings bordered on lunacy—she had seen the frenzied satisfaction on more than a few faces of the brothers in black when Mance Rayder was brought to the stake. Lo Jun was unaccustomed to such naked hostility and had slipped away from the ghastly spectacle without anyone noticing—perhaps the common folk in Yi Ti had similar emotional displays during public executions, but it would be unthinkable amongst the nobility. She was no stranger to criminals and their ilk, but the more time she spent around these restless former brigands, the greater her discomfort grew.

Castle Black was a barrel full of black powder, ready to ignite. She would be glad to be gone.

The elevator swayed once again and Lo Jun turned to face the featureless ice instead, her stomach rolling unpleasantly. Her palms were clammy, but it was not caused by the black gloves she wore, or the intimidatingly long drop to the ground.

She was anxious.

She had not realized at first, many months ago in the Reach, that Stannis had begun avoiding her. At first, she believed he was simply giving her time to rest and heal without any added pressure. It was a struggle to stay awake for any useful stretch of time, and she lapsed in and out of consciousness. The wounds on her back healed as well as could be expected, scabbing over messily before fading into bright pink scars that would accompany her for the rest of her days. To her surprise, it was Cao An, Lo Shan's gold-toothed second-in-command, who tossed her an extraordinarily pungent jar of ointment with the advice that rubbing it into her scars would make them less stiff. Considering the number of old wounds that crossed his bare forearms—and one particularly appalling scar across his neck that reminded her of a noose—she figured she could do worse than follow his instructions, as offensive as the smell might be.

Her voice was another matter, one that only time seemed to be able to cure. She alternated between a ghastly, rasping tone and a complete inability to speak whatsoever, mouthing the words but unable to wheeze out enough air to say anything at all. It was immensely frustrating to be rendered practically speechless. Unfortunately, her cousin took advantage of Lo Jun's forced silence with the glee of an older sibling, and teased her mercilessly as she pantomimed the rude things he could do to himself instead of bothering her. She did it only halfheartedly, however—more than anything, she was grateful Lo Shan seemed to be returning to his old self, rather than the cold stranger she had encountered in Braavos.

She was not awake when Melisandre and Rithipol Sarey worked whatever sorcery it was that won Stannis eighteen new river ships from the Redwynes. It would have been twenty-four ships, Davos told her later, but five had burned in the confusion and the sixth was witness to such horrifying carnage wrought by the original sailors while enthralled by the spell that Stannis had ordered his men to torch it whole rather than unload the countless body parts as would have been necessary in order to turn it to his cause.

The king had sailed for the Whispering Sound immediately after, accompanied by a full contingent of bannermen and supplemented by sellswords from the Red Horde. Those who remained would march to Bandallon, a small castle home to House Blackbar, and take it. This task fell to Davos, who performed it admirably—no blood was spilled, in fact, since almost all of House Blackbar's knights had been lost in the battle with Stannis near Horn Hill, and the castellan was not interested in having his remaining son meet an inevitable end.

It galled many of the men sworn to Stannis that they were now abandoning what had been a largely successful campaign in the Reach. Lo Jun heard more than a few rumblings of dissatisfaction amongst the ranks, and turned most of her attentions to keeping an eye on those who voiced their discontent the loudest. To her mild surprise, it seemed a small war was brewing within House Florent. On the one side, those who believed wholeheartedly in the Red Priestess—spearheaded by Selyse and Axell Florent—argued that Stannis was doing what was necessary by heeding her word. On the other, those like Alekyne Florent whose faith was not as strong—or perhaps had never truly existed—found greater importance in the king having prevented the Tyrells from conquering Brightwater Keep. To them, the North was a lost cause—who cared what the irrational men at the Wall feared was coming? They were all criminals anyway.

Melisandre was not in any shape to contain the infighting. The magic she had performed at Brightwater Keep seemed to have leeched the life from her, and the few times Lo Jun saw the priestess, she seemed wan and exhausted. Instead, Melisandre spent a good deal of time alone, ostensibly praying to her god. Lo Jun did not mind in the least. There was not a shred of doubt in her mind that the Red Woman was behind the shadow demons that had assaulted her during the fire—who else could produce and control creatures of shadow and smoke? The weaker the Red Woman was, the better. Still, it would have been nice to have someone else contain the arguments over strategy that were now devolving into increasingly violent fights.

Ships appeared in Bandallon's tiny harbor before too long. Lo Jun had been eagerly expecting Stannis' arrival ever since her source in Oldtown sent word that the king had captured a number of seafaring ships belonging the Redwynes. The river ships that had carried him south were of no use for long sea voyages, and had been sacrificed in order to win more appropriate vessels. No doubt the Redwynes would be furious once they found out, but the majority of their fleet was away dealing with a recent spate of conveniently timed pirate attacks.

Salladhor Saan and his motley band were certainly earning their wage.

But Stannis did not bring her aboard with him when they set out for the Bay of Ice and the Wall. He sailed north with Davos on a separate ship, while Lo Jun had been placed aboard the _Sea Hound_ and Selyse, Shireen, and the Red Woman occupied the _Wings of Autumn_. The arrangement saddened and confused her. Lo Jun did not regret confessing her feelings to the king, but it was clear he sought to distance himself from her. She had not intended to push him away, or to make any actual demands on him—she had understood and accepted his refusal, after all—but perhaps he felt he had no choice. And now it was too late to take it back.

Lo Jun's only comfort was that Lo Shan was there to keep her company, and truthfully she welcomed the opportunity to reconcile with her only remaining blood relative.

"It was the Red Witch," she told Lo Shan and Rithipol Sarey the first night she felt truly well enough to join them after the evening meal. Her cousin listened as she recounted the terror she had experienced during the fire at Brightwater Keep, lounging with a closed expression against the bulkhead atop a three-legged stool. The warlock seated beside Lo Shan was perched rigidly like an eagle in a high-backed chair, and he clucked in sympathy, drumming his spindly fingers against his crossed knee.

"Why would she want you dead?" Perhaps Lo Shan had not meant it to sound skeptical, but Lo Jun bristled all the same.

"Because I speak out against her barbarism," she snapped back. "Burning people alive is deviant behavior, cousin."

"Or because you have eyes for the king?" She glared at Lo Shan, heat rising beneath her collar. His face betrayed no opinion on the matter, but she suspected he naturally harbored a rather traditional YiTish disapproval of her lack of decorum around Stannis, even if the king was an uncultured Westerosi.

"The shadowbinders of Asshai are by and large not a lot to be trusted," the pale sorcerer told them sadly, interrupting their squabble. Rithipol Sarey had surprised her with his easy command of the YiTish language, but she supposed there was little that a man such as he could not learn. "I have encountered my fair share during my long travels, and I must admit, I have learned that in general your people's fear of them is well-founded. Even serving a foreign god would not change a shadowbinder's true devious nature—a leopard cannot change his spots."

"We'll watch her," Lo Shan told her quietly. Placated, she tried a brave smile in return, feeling very small. It had been a long time since she had relied on her older cousin for protection, and it made her feel very homesick.

"I will give you an amulet to war you against further malicious sorcery from this priestess," declared Rithipol Sarey, his fingers fluttering like moths in the lamplight. "There are no bound shadows that can penetrate its protective nature." He smiled at Lo Jun, like a shark gazing benevolently at its prey. She suppressed a shiver, unable to avoid her instinctive response to the warlock's attention. It was a mystery how Lo Shan could stand it, but she had little choice now in her allies. It would be better to have the warlock on her side than against her.

Two days and one missing goat later, Rithipol Sarey did indeed present her with an amulet to wear, strung on a delicate bronze chain large enough to slip over her head without a clasp. She accepted it nervously without touching his skeletal fingers, and studied it with what she hoped was an expression of appreciation rather than the skepticism she truly felt. There was a translucent blue gem set deep into the wrought bronze oval, like an eye peering out from the center of her chest when worn. It was pretty enough to pass as a trinket, although certainly not one of YiTish origin. She put it on, and soon enough forgot it was even there.

A few days after passing the coastline of Feastfires, a lone ship appeared on the horizon like an ill omen. Even at a distance the ship was the very picture of menace, with black sails and a hull the color of fresh blood. Rithipol Sarey joined Lo Jun at the railing to gawk.

"Euron Greyjoy's ship," the warlock mused. "The _Silence_.I had not thought he would return to these waters while his brother still lived."

"You've heard of him?" Lo Jun knew of the Greyjoys, but only of Balon and his unfortunate son, Theon, who was a ward of Ned Stark and had disappeared from Winterfell after betraying the family who raised him. Stannis had nothing but contempt for Balon and his claim to kingship—he had defeated the old man before and viewed him largely as an insignificant nuisance.

The warlock smiled unpleasantly. "Everyone in Essos has heard of the Crow's Eye," he replied. She resented the implicit criticism there. She had been an accountant, not a merchant or a sailor. She had no reason to know of pirates, even if Yin was a port city. Perturbed, she watched as the crew of the _Sea Hound_ around them made the sign against evil as they stopped all work to stare at the _Silence_.

The dark red ship followed them for two days, circling like a hungry tiger stalking a herd of fat oxen. Unease grew almost to a fever pitch among the sailors, and Lo Jun noticed they had begun sleeping with swords and daggers hugged tight to their chests. The day the _Silence_ disappeared from view was the worst—even the captain and pilot were convinced the dreaded ship would materialize out of the sea to destroy them all. Luckily the sun rose the next day without any further sightings, and the crew quieted once more.

"He has gone to Pyke," said Rithipol Sarey. Lo Jun did not know what to make of the thoughtful look in the warlock's eyes.

The air grew steadily colder and she found herself wearing several layers of clothing at once to compensate for the loss of warmth. Several of the men on the ship sickened and had to be consigned to the waters, succumbing to the dwindling food and the harsh climate. Lo Jun watched dully as their weighted corpses sank into the sea, too tired of shivering to do much else. One of the Westerosi knights—a large, smiling blond man with cheeks made pink by the cold—took pity on her and offered her the use of a spare wool blanket to keep warm. She suspected he also had other ambitions that involved a place in her bed, but she was in no mood, even if it would mean added heat.

It was a mercy when they made land just south of the Wall. Lo Jun was not the only person to stumble and fall once on dry land, her legs anticipating the swell of waves that did not exist. The lurch of her horse's swaying only compounded the problem—she rode a good distance to the Shadow Tower with her eyes closed, grimly determined not to let the bobbing horizon empty her stomach.

At first, Ser Denys Mallister could not decide whether he was pleased or annoyed by the arrival of several thousand men at his garrison. Lo Jun suspected that the old knight was extremely dismayed to learn that Stannis Baratheon intended to ride for Castle Black and not remain at the Shadow Tower, but Ser Denys remained unfailingly polite regardless of his thoughts on the matter. She liked him, and she certainly appreciated his gift of a spare fur-lined cloak, even if it was almost threadbare and a good foot too long. She could tell Stannis liked him too—the king left two dozen men behind to help the commander hold the castle against the imminent attack by wildlings, but he could spare no more, and they could not tarry.

Her renewed interactions with Stannis were brief and perfectly respectful. She did not seek him out when the army camped each night, and she delivered what few reports she still received from the South perfunctorily. Most times she found him with Davos or the Red Woman, and other times she encountered him alone, but Lo Jun did not impose on the king any more than necessary. A few times she imagined he regarded at her wistfully, but she pushed such thoughts aside—his reluctance to engage her further was obvious, whatever his true feelings.

They treated one another with cordial familiarity. While outwardly it seemed some degree of normalcy had returned, Lo Jun felt a profound sense of loss each time she encountered the king, as if there were an invisible hole that had opened up between them. Seeing him so close yet so far away was a strange kind of agony, repeated over and over without ever becoming truly numb to the hurt. It was easier when the ocean depths separated them—out of sight, out of mind.

"His Grace missed you at sea," was the only comment Davos made on the matter, and she had sat in her bedroll and cried angrily afterwards.

She played games with Shireen while they waited for Stannis to return from his skirmish with the wildlings. From the ferocious tales Denys Mallister had recounted during their short stay at Shadow Tower, Lo Jun was half afraid the king would not return. Before he left, Lo Shan had to remind her that Stannis' army had the benefit of cavalry and tactics—the wildlings were reportedly little more than rabble, even if they were fierce fighters. Her cousin was no fool—he could see through her courteous façade to the misery that lingered underneath. To his credit, he did not tell her she was making a mistake, pining for a cold, hard man—she would not have listened anyway.

There was a brief moment after the battle was won when Lo Jun found herself alone with the king, as the civilians in Stannis' retinue settled into Castle Black. Stannis had commandeered a large room in the main keep as his study, and she found him there staring at the cobwebs in the corners with a thunderous expression.

"I am glad to see you safe, Your Grace," she told him softly, unable to contain the relief she felt. She did not wait for him to reply, and instead bowed formally as would be expected for a sovereign. She could feel his eyes on her back as she left.

When the boy—Olly, was his name—brought her word that the king summoned her atop the Wall, Lo Jun had prepared herself for yet another strained conversation that would leave her depressed. It would have been a kindness if Stannis had simply sent her away, dismissing her from his service for good. She could not stop loving him, and each time they met, the wounds on her spirit opened afresh.

She went to find Stannis with a sigh and a heavy heart.

The elevator ground to a halt, jarring her back to the present, and she tiptoed out like a mouse in a cupboard. The handful of brothers in black currently manning the top of the Wall ignored her, save for one sour-faced man who jerked a thumb in the direction of the king when she inquired. It was apparently a long walk away—she could not see anyone.

She walked, one foot placed determinedly before the other, with her eyes fixed on the snow. _Look anywhere but out_ , she repeated to herself, _don't think about how high up you are._

Stannis was deep in conversation with Davos and a soulful-looking young man, whose name, she recalled, was Jon Snow. The men at Castle Black seemed to hold either high regard or utter disdain for him, with very few moderate opinions. From the brief interactions she had with him, Jon Snow struck Lo Jun as a quiet, serious man burdened by more than one ghost riding his shoulders—and she meant actual spirits of the dead, not the fearsome white beast of his that he had apparently named Ghost. Lo Jun liked dogs, but the direwolf was entirely something else, and she preferred it to stay as far away from her as possible. Perhaps if she were not so afraid of his pet, she might have gotten to know Jon Snow more, but even without any extended close contact she found herself drawn to him as if he were a lodestone. He was a born leader, clear enough.

Rather than interrupt, she paused a respectful distance away to wait for the men to conclude their discussion. There was a break in the great blocks of ice that served as a railing of sorts, and Lo Jun sidled up to it, halfheartedly cursing her curiosity. With one hand firmly gripping a corner of ice lest she fall to her doom, she peered around the ice to finally take in the vista that spread before her.

She gasped, and the cold wind whisked the sound away instantly.

The sight was indescribable.

The view stretched for hundreds of miles—thousands, perhaps—and she fancied she could see every hill and vale between here and the horizon. Beyond the Wall was the cold, unforgiving snow, the untouched, untamed wilderness broken into segments by thick clusters of hardy, unfamiliar trees with green spines. To the south, she could see the muddy brown of a land not yet buried in the snows that threatened to break past the Wall's protection, and the distant smoke from infrequent settlements that huddled sad and determined against the elements. It was like flying, like seeing through the eyes of an eagle—she lifted her arms and felt the wind force her back a step, so she leaned forward just enough to let the resistance keep her upright. She reached one hand forth in an effort to touch the clouds that hovered just beyond her reach, low and dark and pregnant with snow.

"What are you doing?" Stannis had finished what business he had with Jon Snow and Davos, and the two other men departed, leaving them alone without anyone else in sight. He watched her, his hard expression hovering somewhere between amusement and alarm. Her earlier trepidation was all but gone, erased along with the last months of loneliness and disappointment. Lo Jun turned to him with the widest smile she fancied she'd ever had, and laughed—truly laughed, for the first time in many long weeks.

"This is beautiful!" she exclaimed, throwing her joy freely into the wind. The twitch in his cheek might have been a smile. Her toes curled in delight—she wanted to see him pleased, or at the very least amused.

"It has its charms." Of course. Even if he did share her enthusiasm, she would not have expected him to admit it.

"How bland," she teased him impulsively. "Is it not a glory to behold your kingdom from such a view?" Stannis frowned halfheartedly, and indulged her by finally looked out over the frozen landscape of the wild, rugged North.

He looked so handsome there against the frozen sky, his eyes a dark, steel blue that matched the clouds she wished so much to dive into off the top of the Wall. The black leathers he wore suited his somber nature. As much as she enjoyed the sight of Stannis at ease in the warmer climate of the Reach, Lo Jun had to admit he was a man well-suited to the severe North in both personality and appearance.

He stood only a pace away, his body angled towards her even as he gazed grimly out over the view she had just been appreciating. Up so high, the wind stripped warmth and caution from her bones. She had truly missed the excitement of Stannis' company in the long weeks since Brightwater Keep—and even more, she missed _him_. Having him so close now made her giddy, as if the air were made of wine that made her abandon her usual restraint. Wonder freed her spirit and she soared, untethered and joyous. She knew, deep in her bones, that as Stannis looked back to her, the moment was unique, perfect in every way—and it would never come again.

She hopped up onto the very tips of her toes and pressed her lips to his.

He had not shaved since the battle against the wildlings, and the scruff of his growing beard scratched her skin. It was a completely new sensation—she had never kissed a man with facial hair before, and found it to be surprisingly pleasant. His lips were dry but warm despite the winter that surrounded them, with a softness she focused on in contrast to the coarseness of his beard. He smelled of horses and leather and iron, even here where the wind carried away everything but the cold. With her hands pressed lightly against his chest, she could feel his sudden intake of breath even through the gloves on her hands and the thick leather and wool that he wore.

And then, all too quickly, she lost her balance and broke away from the kiss, coming down hard on the heels of her feet. The jolt brought her back to her senses, alarm bells as loud as the Emperor's gong for midday meditations finally ringing in her head as the enormity of her actions came crashing down around her in a rockslide of bad decisions.

He stared at her in what must have been horror.

She stared back for exactly one heartbeat, equally appalled as the scorching heat of embarrassment blossomed quickly across her face, and immediately bolted without another word.

* * *

 _A/N: travel is boring let's get to the fun stuff  
_

 _Tendevils: Thank you! I wish I could read French, since I see your stories pop up every time I revisit the GoT section!_

 _KioshiUshima: Thank you! The merry band isn't splitting up quiiiiiiite yet, but stay tuned._

 _Marvelmyra: If Stannis wasn't in the picture, Jon would be up to bat-but technically, Stannis is the king after Robert. Hereditary monarchies get too messy, though; Westeros should really just have elections. #fucktheking_

 _Theeyeofanger: I'm sorry you feel that way!_


	26. Chapter Twenty-Five

Stannis stalked the halls of Castle Black like a vengeful wraith, his face fixed into a deep, furious scowl. Night had fallen rapidly—hours before—and he could not recall when he had last encountered anyone else, although whether that was because the fortress lacked actual residents or because they had all been scared off by his dark expression, he did not care to know. All that mattered was his solitude and the fact that he could not keep himself still, prowling instead like a caged predator, ready to lash out at anyone and anything that dared disturb him.

He did not know what to do with himself. Or was it that he did not know what to do with Lo Jun? Perhaps—more likely, even—it was both.

He knew the only way to prevent temptation would be to remove the source, but he had not had the strength to send Lo Jun away for good after her confession at Brightwater Keep. He prided himself on being a hard man with the fortitude to do what must be done, regardless of the cost—but as it turned out, this time the cost was too high for him to follow through. Rather than acknowledge his weakness for the woman, he had imagined that she was irreplaceable as his Master of Whispers—he did not have the time or patience to find someone else for the position, and had come to rely on her reports concerning the activities of his enemies despite their occasional fallibility. Surely that excused him from dismissing her completely.

Instead, Stannis had opted for what he imagined was the second-best alternative. He had thought that distancing himself from her would solve the problem, or at least temper it to a manageable level. He was wrong. The ache remained, so much so that he had been irritable and restless for the entirety of the voyage north. In hindsight, Davos deserved commendation for stoically enduring his king's misplaced anger—as the only person Stannis routinely conversed with aboard that miserable ship, the Hand bore the brunt of Stannis' simmering frustration. The former smuggler was an annoyingly compassionate presence, for all his loyalty—Davos did not need to voice his sympathy for it to be evident, and Stannis almost resented his understanding. He told himself he did not need pity, but then spent all those long weeks brooding alone, nursing his unhappiness.

Stannis was not blind—he knew Lo Jun had not discarded her feelings for him, and he knew that she could not have done so even if she had been willing. For all she treated him with the polite deference due him as king, he could tell she struggled with having to see him every day. It vexed him that he regretted causing her discomfort—it was an awkward reminder that he was not made of stone, and that somehow, for some reason, he actually _cared_ what she felt.

And then, she had _kissed_ him, obliterating whatever illusions he might have had about a strained but seemly relationship. It was reckless almost to the extreme, in more ways than he could count. He had a wife, and a duty; he was the king; they could have been _seen_. Not that Stannis would have been the first monarch to keep a mistress, but he was not yet ready for a reputation like Robert's. What was more, it was on her own initiative. She had left him reeling, rooted to the damned Wall as if his boots had melted and frozen instantaneously to the ice.

The worst part? He had enjoyed it. He wanted more.

He was a decisive king. He hated—truly _hated_ —the uncertainty Lo Jun brought to his life. Stannis wanted life plain and uncomplicated by the vagaries of human emotion—he thought he had forged himself into such a man, tempered by tragedy and betrayal and an unyielding spirit. Only once before had he found his life so upended by passion, and that was when his daughter had been infected by greyscale. It had been _understandable_ then, that he would react. Now? This should have been utter foolishness, swept aside by his iron will. And yet, it was nothing of the sort.

His feet seemed to have a mind of their own as they carried him down one hallway then another, winding in what he believed was aimless wandering. Parts of Castle Black were entirely unfamiliar to him, either having been long abandoned with the lack of recruits or recently vacated due to damage sustained during the battle against the wildlings. Nonetheless, he did recognize the sturdy wooden door that loomed before him along this particular silent corridor. It had haunted him all afternoon, and yet still he was surprised to find himself standing before it, studying the whorls in the wood and the harsh grooves likely made during some past melee. He could not remember how he arrived.

Swiftly, without waiting to consider it, he rapped his knuckles quickly against the hard wood, half-expecting to receive no answer at this late hour.

"Yes?" Lo Jun's voice was quiet, muffled by the door and what he wanted to imagine was a hint of melancholy. He was surprised but somehow relieved by the speed with which she responded—he was not the only one having trouble sleeping tonight.

"It's your king," he rasped, his voice carrying farther than he would have liked in the cold air. He knew the annoyance he felt at having to reply was unreasonable—it was wise of her to inquire before opening the door to simply anyone, especially considering the highly questionable characters of most men in the Night's Watch.

A dreadful moment of silence passed without response. Finally, Stannis heard the bolt being dragged back, and the warm glow of candlelight spilled out into the hallway as the door opened.

Lo Jun did not look at him, her eyes fixed on some point near his shins. She held a silk dressing gown closed with one hand, bunching the pale green fabric together just below her throat in one fist. It gave her an almost ethereal appearance, standing in stark contrast to her hair—dark, like the color of a raven's wing—tumbling freely around her ashen face. The thin fabric did not look nearly warm enough to withstand the cold, and his frown deepened.

She offered no resistance as he pushed the door open to admit himself without asking. Her tiny room was no more than a storage closet, big enough to fit only a narrow bed piled high with furs, a short, ugly desk, and a heavy chair that looked suspiciously like it might have been _borrowed_ very recently from the common hall. In addition to the embers giving off feeble heat from the modest fireplace, candles burned on the desk, arranged around a blank sheet of parchment accompanied by a forgotten quill, as if Lo Jun had been in the middle of preparing to write something before becoming distracted.

He felt her hesitate, and so he shut the door behind him instead. Even though there was no one else around to witness them alone—no one else who would know of the indecency—this was not a conversation he wanted to have in view of whatever ghosts stalked the halls of Castle Black after dark. He stared at her, a thousand questions tumbling through his mind until he finally settled on one simple word:

"Why?"

The question bounced off the stones and faded, a desperate arrow fired wildly into the dark.

"I am sorry, Your Grace," she murmured, eyes downcast. He had to strain to hear her soft words despite the close quarters and the absolute silence of the late hour. She seemed smaller than usual, her thin shoulders rounded as she tried to tuck her bare feet beneath the hem of her robe. He realized with a sinking feeling that the voyage north had not been as kind as his earlier campaign—there were too many bones visible just beneath her skin for his comfort. She covered it well during the day, swaddled in so many layers of clothing, and he had not noticed until then.

"I don't want your apologies," he snapped. She did not flinch, but neither did she meet his gaze. A swell of frustration made him clench his jaw—he knew Lo Jun was bold, but acting as she had and then refusing to answer for it was beyond his ability to tolerate. It was not simply her apparent refusal to explain that incensed him—more than anything else, he had to know.

He stepped forward to grasp her roughly, ready to shake an answer out of her if she did not respond.

She looked up at him at last as his hands closed on her upper arms. His cold, unyielding sense of duty struggled against his unbearable _need_ —for a heartbeat, he almost released her and stepped away, almost ended it all there.

Her lips were soft, eager. She was fire in his veins, a roaring inferno in his soul. He kissed her hungrily, his grip tightening sharply on her arms. They broke apart briefly, their breath steaming harshly in the frigid night air. He was not sure whose body trembled, hers or his or even both, but he pressed his forehead against hers, struggling to control his wildly beating heart.

Kissing his wife had always been like kissing a fish. The Red Woman's touch, as sensuous as it was, gave him no true warmth, like a vision of flame without real substance. His spymaster, though, filled him with the heat of a summer afternoon, burning the ugly shadows from his thoughts like dew dissolving in sunlight.

His mouth found hers again and she sighed into him with pleasure, her body melting into his grasp even as he forgot that he still held her arms. He drew her into him, marveling at the way she responded so willingly to the slightest pressure. She held nothing back, giving him everything he asked for and everything he did not yet know he wanted.

She pulled at the leather belt that secured his clothing and he grabbed her hands on flustered reflex. He regretted it immediately, even more so when she looked up at him with dark, hungry eyes.

"I want to see you," she very nearly pleaded, her voice low and urgent, and a delicious thrill shot through him. He always came to Selyse in the dark—neither of them ever really wanted gaze upon the other—and he had taken Melisandre quickly, without bothering to undress. The thought of standing bare before a woman, even in the low candlelight that flickered in this little room, made him feel vulnerable, almost anxious. It would be easier—so much easier—to take Lo Jun now in the same rapid fashion, finally giving in to the sharp longing that had plagued them both for so long.

But the caress of her small, warm hands on his skin as she slid the cloth off his shoulders made him resist. Her slow, careful movements seemed so steady, so sure, that it gave him a strange new confidence. He barely noticed as the silk she wore pooled on the floor like water poured from a glass—she was as bare as him when she stepped close once more, and he marveled at the tiny bumps of gooseflesh that rose on her skin as she shivered in the cold. He captured her lips once more into a bruising kiss, his hands warming her body as they explored.

She might have stepped back or he might have led, but somehow they found themselves atop the bed, nestled amidst the heavy furs. He knelt between her legs, his heart beating as if he had just scaled the Wall singlehandedly. He did not pause to contemplate the wisdom of what he was doing before thrusting himself into her completely, baring his teeth savagely at Lo Jun's gasp of surprise.

He was breaking his vows once again, but it no longer mattered. His duty, so long protected, crumbled to dust in the face of love—a love eagerly returned by the same woman whose touch he craved. They moved together with the familiarity of a lifetime of intimacy, her whimpers stifled against his shoulder, and for the first time in his life, Stannis buried his face in the crook of a woman's neck as he groaned in release.

The idle patterns she drew on his damp, naked back lulled him almost to sleep. Stannis only roused himself once he realized Lo Jun had ceased moving and had herself drifted off—even then, it took him many long moments before he could bring himself to roll off her small form and stand. He fumbled with the laces on his discarded clothes, cursing silently as his fingers refused to respond with their usual agility. Before leaving, the king covered Lo Jun with the worn bearskin that decorated her bed, and was rewarded with a drowsy sigh of contentment as she burrowed deeper into the warmth.

He was not expecting to see Davos Seaworth rounding the corner with his hands clasped behind his back, apparently deep in thought even at this early hour. Startled in turn, Stannis' Hand paused and took a quick look around, as if suddenly unsure of where he stood or which hallway he had turned down.

Their eyes met for a moment. The former smuggler nodded slightly, his expression carefully blank, and Stannis turned immediately away, the dark glower on his face poorly concealing his keen embarrassment.

Unseen, Davos smiled at his king's retreating back.

Sleep eluded Stannis even as dawn stole over Castle Black. His nerves were afire despite the heavy leaden feeling of exhaustion weighing down his limbs. Everything seemed especially _real_ to him—the air was crisper and more refreshing than he recalled, and the snow piled high in corners sparkled like discarded diamonds. Colors were brighter, more vivid, even the black cloaks of the Night's Watch. _I must be losing my mind_ , he thought dourly. That, or some curse had turned him into Robert as a love-struck boy.

As he strode into the kitchens in search of something to quiet his nerves, the wildling girl bouncing a chubby, squalling infant on her hip peered at him curiously through the lank hair that fell across her face. He recognized her—very nearly all of the wildlings involved in the assault on Castle Black had been imprisoned in the dungeons, including the few women who fought and survived. This girl was the only one who had apparently been given the freedom to roam the keep unguarded, and had been tasked with helping the brothers prepare meals and do the washing. She certainly did not look like a fighter, and if Stannis had cared about the wildlings beyond their potential as an auxiliary force to his army, he might have been somewhat more interested as to what, exactly, she was doing here.

Her sidelong inspection made him feel especially uncomfortable, as if whatever exhilaration currently ailing him was patently obvious despite his best efforts. To her credit, rather than continue to gawp at him, she curtsied clumsily, somehow managing not to drop the babe, and pointed shyly to a molding basket to his left.

"Sorry, Your Grace," she said timidly, sounding as if her mouth were full of the colorful marbles Renly used to play with as a child, "That's all's left of the bread from last night. Haven't started on the morning meal, beggin' your pardon, ser."

Whatever sorry state the basket was in, the bread seemed edible if not appallingly stale. Stannis took it grudgingly, having eaten much worse during his life. At the door, he paused—as a king, he had no obligation to thank the servants and smallfolk who served him, but she had done him a kindness and he was feeling inexplicably generous. He nodded once, curtly, in thanks, and quickly escaped when she looked away with a startled, embarrassed blush.

Not trusting himself to interact with anyone else in an entirely lucid manner, the king shut himself in his study to stare without truly seeing at maps of the North and unopened letters from northern Houses. It was some time before he selected one particularly long missive from Arnolf Karstark and attempted to read, frowning as he did so. Fatigue made him struggle to focus, and it was only further impaired when the door to his study was pushed quietly open.

Stannis was both relieved and, guiltily, slightly disappointed to see it was only Shireen, slipping in with a quick, apologetic smile that he did not return. On another day, he might have told her to find somewhere else to play, that he did not have time for distractions, but he was feeling especially indulgent.

He tried to ignore her as she examined something from a box placed near the side of the room, but a gnawing feeling of guilt had already begun to preoccupy him. Shireen almost never sought him out, but his study was likely the best place for her to loiter at Castle Black. It was his fault for not ensuring she was occupying her time appropriately, or that she did not have companions to look after her like all other highborn girls. She was only a child, after all, and he did have a responsibility to her as his daughter.

"Are you lonely?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Just bored," she said mildly.

Stannis was familiar with that particular childhood ailment. "My father used to tell me that boredom indicates a lack of inner resources." Steffon Baratheon had not been terribly sympathetic to his second son's complaints—Robert had had no trouble inventing games or play-fighting with imaginary knights, and their father had once lamented how Stannis' deficient imagination could not compare to that of his older brother.

"Were you bored a lot, too?" She was being pert. He concealed a grimace. He had forgotten she had a faster wit than most adults.

"I know Castle Black is no place for a child, but I—"

"I like it," she interrupted genuinely. He tried not to scowl at the idea that Shireen would enjoy being in this miserable place, amongst these questionable people—he should have known that his daughter would appreciate unusual sources of entertainment. "I thought I'd be left at home." She crossed his study haphazardly, seeking something else to inspect, and found a carving representing a cavalry unit of House Bolton. "I know Mother didn't want to bring me."

"Why do you say that?" Mention of Selyse set him instantly on edge. Regrettably, Shireen was right. His queen wife had _not_ wanted to bring their daughter. Selyse had not wanted to leave Shireen behind because of the girl's gender, however, or in the belief that the battlefield was no place for a respectable lady—Selyse believed Shireen was a true embarrassment, a shame to her and to his House, and wanted the child firmly out of sight. Stannis did not think his wife would be unkind enough to tell this to Shireen outright, but perhaps the child was more perceptive than he would hope.

"She told me, 'I don't want to bring you.'" If he had not been listening carefully, Shireen's voice would have seemed matter-of-fact, like she was simply remarking on the weather outside. Underneath, however, he could hear the trembling of distress and uncertainty—his daughter was no master of lies yet, adept at concealing her emotions without fail.

Stannis lowered the letter he had been unsuccessfully reading as his previously good mood vanished. The thought occurred to him that he should find Selyse and simply toss her from the top of the Wall, thereby solving more than one problem in his life.

"She shouldn't have said that," he remarked, laboring to keep himself calm. Selyse might as well have wounded him personally. It appalled him that his wife would seek to hurt their daughter in such an openly cruel manner, and it made him dislike her even more, although he could not say he was entirely surprised.

Shireen bit her lip before turning to face him, her hands clasped demurely in front of her. He recognized that look in her eye—it was the look Lo Jun gave him when she had something on her mind, but was hesitant to say anything. He made a pained expression, wondering if his daughter had learned it from the YiTish woman, or the other way around.

"Are you ashamed of me, Father?"

Shireen's sad question left him momentarily stunned. It was not something children should have to ask of their parents, and it struck close to his own heart. Stannis' own father was never quite proud of his second-born—whatever Stannis tried to do, Robert had done first, and better. No matter the platitudes, in reality there was no pleasing Steffon Baratheon. At the most, as a child, Stannis could aim to perform _acceptably_ , but true praise from his father was never forthcoming.

He tossed the letter down on his desk and dropped a weight on it to keep it in place. There were many ways he could express his answer, but only one that seemed adequate for this moment. It was not a story he had ever told her.

"When you were an infant," he began, pushing himself out of his chair, "A Dornish trader landed on Dragonstone. His goods were junk, except for one wooden doll. He even sewed a dress on it in the colors of our House. No doubt he'd heard of your birth, and assumed new fathers were easy targets." And oh, how right that trader had been. Stannis could not conceal the bitterness in his voice. "I still remember how you smiled when I put that doll in your cradle; how you pressed it to your cheek." He looked up at her, lost in the memory—his only child, still just a babe, laughing with all the innocence in the world at the gift her father had given her, unaware of the treachery of men's hearts.

"By the time we burned the doll, it was too late." He did not like to remember the fear that had gripped him, or the impotent fury when he consigned the diseased doll to the flames. "I was told you would die, or worse, the greyscale would go slow. That you'd grow just enough to know the world before taking it away from you. Everyone advised me to send you to the ruins of Valyria to live out your short life with the stone men before the sickness spread through the castle. I told them all to go to hell." Indeed, Stannis had not considered it even for a second. Shireen's little smile now was a precious thing, startled and pleased that he had cursed in front of her. It alleviated some of the discomfort he felt at seeing tears well in her blue eyes.

"I called in every maester on this side of the world, every healer, every apothecary. They stopped the disease and saved your life." It had been a miracle of medicine, or maybe just a miracle. It was the closest he had come to believing in the gods again—no one could tell exactly _who_ or what combination of poultices or prayers had succeeded, but Stannis did not care as long as _it worked_.

"Because you do not belong across the world with the bloody stone men. You are the Princess Shireen of House Baratheon." He hesitated, knowing that was not the true reason why he had nearly bankrupted his House to save her. He had not been a king, then.

No, he had not sought to save a princess. "And you are _my_ daughter."

Shireen flung her arms around him, her face buried in his chest even though her hands could not quite encircle his torso. He stood still for moment, shocked, before enfolding her somewhat awkwardly in his own arms. How long had it been since he had last held his daughter? Stannis could not recall, and it left him strangely saddened. He was not one for open displays of affection, but this felt… nice.

He put his lips to her hair in a firm, paternal kiss that he had not given for many, many years, and sighed heavily.

It seemed his world was changing.

* * *

 _A/N: I guess I have to change the rating on this story now._

 _KioshiUshima: Bad decisions are only bad if they end bad! At least that's what I told myself when I was younger. __

 _Cookie. Monster 67: Thank you so much for the compliments! GRRM tells a great tale, but if I'm being totally honest I found his last books a bit of a slog with the unnecessary details. I imagine GoT political campaigns would be hilarious but ultimately depressing; I have a feeling we'd all have President Petyr Baelish before too long..._

 _htennis: Thank you!_

 _Cmedina1: Yes, black powder = gunpowder. Although keep in mind, if we're going by historical analogues, this is essentially the late 15th century, and although China had explosive munitions since at least the 13th century, it was far, far less effective than what we have today._


	27. Chapter Twenty-Six

Once again, Lo Jun dreamt of fire.

Since leaving the Reach, her sleeping hours had often been consumed with visions of cruel flame, and on many occasions she had awoken drenched in sweat after believing she had been trapped in a burning room with no exit. This time, however, she stood upon an open plain, the dry scrubland stretching for leagues in all directions. In the distance, a mountain range stabbed great stone fingers towards the sky, rising dauntingly without foothills out from the flat land. Nestled in the embrace of the mountains was a formidable black fortress, as unbreakable as the rock from which it was carved and almost as ancient. She knew instantly that this was Yi Ti, somewhere in the northern reaches of the Empire where people were scarce and food was scarcer. The stronghold was one of the Five Forts, built so long ago that even the YiTish stories could not remember the circumstances of its construction.

A wall of flame encircled her, ringing her in fury. She could _feel_ the anger there, and the frustration, but she was not afraid. Whatever power the fire might have had, it did not affect her. The ice of this northern plain beat back the oppressive flames, the frost beneath her feet hissing where it met the circle of fire. A cold unlike anything she'd ever known crept up through her toes—perhaps it would have turned her bones to ice, but Lo Jun drew warmth from the crackling fire.

The battle between the elements reached a crescendo, the crackling so loud it seemed thunder clap balls were exploding between her ears. A feeling of urgency grew, sharp and incessant, pressing her to _look here, pay attention_ , but whatever the existential struggle was meant to convey, she could not understand. Any meaning there eluded her, as if she were trying to grab hold of mist or fog.

Lo Jun's eyes opened to the cold, soft light of dawn. The fire she had so carefully banked in the hearth had died sometime during the night and now her breath steamed in the air. For an instant, she could not remember where she was, trapped halfway between her dream and reality.

Omens. As if life were not complicated enough.

She rolled off the bed and winced as the memory of the previous night flooded back. The soreness between her legs gave her both a smug sense of achievement as well as some mild dismay. It had been… a very long time since she was last intimate with a man. Indeed, it was perhaps years—she could not have risked a dalliance while in flight from her homeland, since involvement of that kind was both prohibited for the traveling bureaucrats employed by the God Emperor and, more importantly, would leave her vulnerable and potentially at the mercy of a stranger.

She sighed. Perhaps she could blame any trace of a limp on too many days spent on horseback.

On the other hand, a physical reminder of the last night's events helped Lo Jun realize that that, at least, had not been a dream. Panic struck momentarily as she realized just how far out of control her relationship with Stannis Baratheon had spiraled—a kiss they could maybe, _possibly_ ignore, but this… Part of her wanted to run away now, leaving behind her indiscretions and hopeless, hopeless stupidity, and part of her wanted to find him immediately to see if he regretted it, or wanted more.

Both ideas were foolish. Acting rashly was what got her in this position—it would be best not to rush into a decision. She needed time to think, as did Stannis, she was sure. She would leave him to his thoughts. Stannis was skittish like a young colt—too much attention and he would unquestionably bolt.

Instead, she bundled herself into as many layers as she could, and braved the miserable winter outside to reach the rookery. There would be a number of messages there for her, she suspected, now that her few remaining agents knew she could be found at the Wall. News took a long time to travel this far north, and she prized what scant opportunities she had to learn of the events unfolding elsewhere. Stannis might not care, determined as he was now to protect his kingdom and liberate the North from Bolton control, but regardless, she diligently catalogued news from all over Westeros.

The soft rustle of wings filled the high-ceilinged room, accompanied by the harsh caws of restless ravens in their cages. Lo Jun liked ravens. They were clever and tended towards mischief, so perhaps she saw a bit of herself in them. Ravens were certainly more useful than the pigeons the YiTish used as messenger birds—pigeons were tasty but stupid, and the incessant cooing grated on Lo Jun's ears.

Two men garbed in black tended to the ravens, one impossibly chubby and the other impossibly frail. The plump young man was chattering happily away about nothing while his ancient companion nodded along,

"Hello, Samwell, Maester Aemon," she greeted them, smiling without thinking at the sight of Samwell Tarly's ever-cheerful expression.

"Oh, hello Lo Jun," Sam said, turning. To her surprise, he cradled a scruffy-looking raven in his hands. The dirty creature reminded Lo Jun of the raven that had come from Aurane Waters at Brightwater Keep, and she had a feeling this one had been sent from the same man. Its matted, greasy feathers stuck out at strange angles, while the bird fixed her with one evil, suspicious eye—she was shocked Sam handled it so easily, remembering how the last raven had pecked at Li Gang so enthusiastically.

"Good timing, you coming here," Sam was saying. "This fellow arrived just this morning with a message for you. Don't know where he came from, looks like a gutter of some kind, though. Poor little man, must've had a rough life so far." The raven preened a little under Sam's careful hands. "We don't have much food at the Wall, I'm afraid, but maybe we can get you something nice," he fussed, gently depositing the bird in an empty wire cage.

"Don't get too attached," the old maester advised Sam kindly. "He'll be flying off to his home soon enough, wherever that may be." Aemon smiled in Lo Jun's direction as he held out a sealed roll of parchment for her to take. The skin of his hands was as thin as the paper he grasped, and she could see the blue veins beneath. "I doubt Lo Jun will indulge our curiosity regarding this raven's origins. That's just how secrets are, I'm afraid." He was teasing her, but she heard no malice in his thin voice. Lo Jun admired Maester Aemon's serenity—it was enough to make even the most enlightened monks in Yi Ti jealous.

"Oh, well," said Sam, only somewhat chastened, "I'm sure we can still do something for him, anyways. We still have some dried berries in the pantry, right?" Maester Aemon smiled benevolently again, as might a grandparent to a favored grandchild, and shuffled away carefully while shaking his head slightly in amusement.

Sam flashed another quick grin, and leaned in close as if he wanted to speak to her in confidence.

"Did you hear? We'll be electing the next Lord Commander later this morning," he said breathlessly. It was a historical moment, Lo Jun knew—not only would the new Lord Commander oversee the Night's Watch, he would set the course for all relationships with the wildlings for the foreseeable future. The Free Folk, as they called themselves, no doubt waited with nervous anticipation to learn if they were to be uneasy friends or bitter foes once more.

"Who do you hope will win?" she asked, curious. From what she could gather, the man Alliser Thorne was a favorite amongst many of the men. Sam Tarly did not seem the hawkish type to support the sour Ser Alliser, but she knew of no other serious contenders.

A proud, cautious look crept over Sam's round face. "Oh, you know," he said dismissively, clearly hedging as he shrugged his shoulders, "The best man for the job will win. I'm sure of that."

Lo Jun hummed in a show of empathizing. She did not push him farther—outwardly, Sam seemed a doughy, weak boy, but she suspected he concealed a fierce stubbornness beneath his otherwise meek temperament. If goaded too far, he might simply clam up, and she did not want to make him unhappy without reason.

"Actually, the man with the most votes will win." Maester Aemon returned with a handful of dried berries for Sam and a small bundle of other letters for Lo Jun. "Some of these are for His Grace," he clarified for her. "The ones with seals from northern Houses, I assume. The plain ones are, I expect, for you." The corners of the blind man's eyes crinkled as he chuckled good-naturedly. "We live in interesting times, young Samwell," he said, causing Sam to blush—the young man evidently had some role in making life _interesting_ at the Wall.

Making her excuses to the two men, Lo Jun returned to her tiny room to open the messages in private. It took some effort to set a fresh log alight in the little fireplace—the wood was wet and resisted catching no matter how passionately she cursed it. She rose once her task was accomplished, dusting the fragments of sap and bark from her numb fingers, and sat at her desk to separate out the letters for Stannis from those she would read.

She unrolled the long missive that had just arrived with the ugly raven, and was greeted with gibberish. Aurane Waters had happily taken her earlier suggestion to heart of using code to exchange messages, and it took her a moment to find the corresponding set of ciphers that would translate his letter.

 _So, Tommen is King. To no one's surprise, the Queen Mother has taken it upon herself to govern for her son. She and I have been spending much more time together; clearly she believes I desire her. I do not disabuse her of that notion, especially, if I may be so bold, since grief has not dulled her beauty. For my efforts—and not without considerable expense, I might add, that Dornish wine I ply her with is not cheap—she has appointed me_ _Master of Ships, in the belief that I can be an additional voice of support for her on the King's Small Council. I would have preferred to be Master of Coin, but alas, that bumbling oaf Mace Tyrell was chosen for the job instead. No matter; I advised Cersei to build a new fleet to rival the Redwynes—not a difficult thing to do, since she seems to harbor a visceral hatred of Olenna Tyrell—and crew it with men of my choosing, some of whom you recommended to me in our last correspondence. My thanks for that, by the way—Sixfingers is an especially good drinking companion._

 _Kevan Lannister hates me for my newfound position and especially for my last suggestion, but there is nothing he can do, since Tommen mostly accepts his mother's commands without a peep. The boy is too busy with his lovely new wife, and it is a genuine shame Margaery has wed such a limp rag. She has greater potential than that._

 _Curiously, there are an increasing number of religious zealots around King's Landing these days, spouting some nonsense about abstinence and piety. Cersei has been speaking of them and their leader, the High Sparrow (does he eat worms, I wonder?), quite often lately. I doubt she has suddenly become a faithful devotee of the Seven, but I do wonder if she sees some use in the man that she undoubtedly believes is clever._

 _I suspect the Queen herself might eventually help her husband grow a backbone, at least. I will be interested to see if she actually manages to tear him from his mother's teat. They spend much of their time in the royal bedchamber. Little princes and princesses in the future, perhaps? I wonder if Stannis will be as heartless as Robert was towards Elia Martell's children._

There was no signature, but she did not need one. She read it twice before folding it into an accordion shape and setting each folded point alight. She would be out of her mind to allow Stannis to read such a message in its raw form—while she enjoyed Aurane Waters' irreverent, conversational tone, and admittedly indulged in a similar sort of reply, the king would likely believe Aurane to be a flippant, useless gossip despite the man's increasingly apparent usefulness.

The other letters contained nothing nearly as interesting, although one from Oldtown dated two weeks prior included the sad news that the ruins of Brightwater Keep were now occupied by a company made up of Lannister and Tyrell bannermen in uneasy cooperation. Lo Jun hated being the bearer of bad news—she would have to think of a gentler way to inform Stannis that his work in the Reach had been undone. Then again, perhaps the king would not be as affected as she imagined—with his mind set on the North, Stannis seemed to have dismissed the southern portions of the kingdom.

The morning passed quickly. Only the growling of Lo Jun's stomach could dislodge her from her now-cozy room, and she reluctantly donned her cloak once more.

On the way to the kitchens, however, she found Shireen and the wildling girl, Gilly, standing at the high railing overlooking the main courtyard, their eyes fixed eagerly on the doors to the common hall. Lo Jun joined them, casting a curious gaze down at the growing number of men filing out. Many looked satisfied, but a good number were sullen—all of them were chattering amongst themselves like chickens in a coop.

"Have they reached a decision?" Lo Jun inquired. As women, none of them had been invited to attend the election for Lord Commander. Gilly was too shy still to answer, unsure as she was of how to act around Lo Jun, who was apparently a lady but not a Lady, but Shireen had no such reservations.

"Jon Snow is the new Lord Commander," the girl whispered animatedly. "I think Father will be pleased."

Lo Jun did not bother to conceal her surprise. Jon Snow might not have been her first choice, had she any say. The YiTish generally believed older men made better leaders and commanders. The boy was clever, yes, and a natural leader, but he was young and inexperienced, for all he had witnessed a great deal in his few short years. She doubted that the Night's Watch could truly afford to elect someone who was only just learning the best ways to exercise his authority during such a volatile time—the tinderbox that was Castle Black would be a challenge even for a seasoned commander.

At the same time, most of the old guard were a miserable lot, and Lo Jun would not trust them to lead the Watch anywhere but into a grave of their own making. New blood might bring renewed vigor to the black brothers, or fresh ideas and perhaps even a slow cure for their virulent hatred towards the wildlings. With diminished numbers and a weakened, conflicting sense of purpose, the time was ripe for the winds of change—and Jon Snow certainly embodied change. That is, of course, if he wasn't forcefully ousted first.

There would be no point in mentioning her misgivings to Stannis. The king had taken a shine to Jon Snow in his usual gruff manner, and Lo Jun was hesitant to suggest that the new Lord Commander could not manage his new role. Besides, there was certainly no small chance that the young man could surprise them all with his acuity—it would be somewhat hypocritical for her to judge him based on his youth when she had not been much older when she first arrived to the Imperial Court.

Distracted as she was by her musings on the implications of Jon Snow's election, Lo Jun scarcely noticed when Shireen and Gilly departed, still talking excitedly to each other. She was alone to witness Alliser Thorne, Janos Slynt, and a handful of other brothers hold a brief, hushed conversation in the courtyard—judging from the collective tension visible even at a distance, Thorne and Slynt were extremely displeased. Lo Jun drummed her fingers against the railing as she considered the possibility that Ser Alliser would not take losing gracefully—she had imagined a coup by disgruntled old men of the Watch mostly in jest, but it turned out there was real danger here for Jon Snow.

Not long afterwards, the 998th Lord Commander was the last to leave the common hall, and emerged only after almost everyone else had dispersed. Jon Snow appeared dazed, blinking several times in the sunlight, and casting a look about him that Lo Jun recognized as one both thrilled and terrified. She smiled to herself in sympathy—no doubt he was feeling the weight of his newfound position.

She waited at the top of the stairs as he began to climb. The Lord Commander's chambers were nearby, so where else could he go?

"Lord Commander," she said as he drew near, and it took him a moment to realize she had called to him. The expression on his face was already weary as he peered at her.

"My lady," he sighed. She almost laughed, sorry that he was already being ambushed by someone desiring his attention. At least she was not the Red Woman, who watched the young man with a strange fascination every time he was outside.

"Congratulations on your election," she said. He nodded a thanks. "Have you given thought to your first order?"

"Five minutes into my command and you already want me to have the future planned out?" Lo Jun inclined her head, smiling apologetically at his wry tone.

"Do you mind if we speak? I will not take much of your time."

Jon Snow hesitated, then motioned for her to follow him into the Lord Commander's rooms. The interior was dark and covered in dust, but Jon Snow opened a wooden shutter to permit light. It was enough to illuminate some disarray, but Lo Jun did not inspect her surroundings too closely out of politeness.

"I have some unsolicited advice for you," she told him.

"And why would I listen to a foreign woman's advice for running the Night's Watch?" He did not mean to offend—it was a simple fact. She did not begrudge him his misgivings.

"I do not know of the Watch," she agreed, "But I do know of men and politics." The thoughtful gleam in his eye told her Jon Snow had heard of the rumors about her role amongst Stannis Baratheon's advisors. _Good_ —she could take advantage of that. "Alliser Thorne and Janos Slynt do not appreciate your usurpation of their goals." He scowled immediately, looking very much like Stannis.

"I didn't plan on it," Jon Snow snapped, and his strangely wounded reaction intrigued her. She would have to ask Samwell Tarly, perhaps, how Jon Snow actually wound up in the running for Lord Commander.

"No," Lo Jun acknowledged, "But whether you planned it or not, you are here and they are not. If you allow their resentment to fester, you will have a problem on your hands."

"Let them complain," he said dismissively. "They're men of the Watch; they'll follow as their oaths require." She shook her head, marveling again at the similarities between this young man and the king she served. They took duty _seriously_ , which blinded them to potential problems—or solutions.

"A single thread cannot make a cord, nor a single tree a forest." Judging by his expression, Lo Jun could tell Jon Snow did not quite grasp her meaning. She tried again, searching for the right words to more accurately translate the meaning of the idiom from her native tongue. "One man alone may be dangerous, but his abilities are naturally limited. You already know these men dislike you. Your opponents are always stronger _together_ —separate them to break them."

"And how do you suggest I go about that?" She did not need to hear the frustration when he spoke to know how he felt at that moment—Jon Snow did not hide his emotions well. But she could not give him the answer he sought. Of course, Lo Jun had _ideas_ , but she was not Jon Snow's Master of Whispers, and she would not do his dirty work for him. Not this time, at least.

She shook her head. "The eagle does not tell the wolf how to hunt," she said patiently. "You know the Night's Watch and their personalities better than I do. How can you separate these men and not be too obvious? Better yet, how can you pit them against each other and forget about you?"

He was quiet for a moment. "Are you always like this?" he finally asked, his voice somewhere between a laugh and a sob. She gave him a quizzical look. "Always… so forward."

She smiled sympathetically.

"Someone in my position is supposed to speak plainly," she reminded him.

"Even with Stannis Baratheon?"

Her smile grew. " _Especially_ with His Grace."

Lo Jun left the young Lord Commander to survey his new quarters in relative peace. There was still work for her to do, but her cramped room had lost its appeal. Instead, she let herself into Stannis' study, armed with a stack of new letters and reports. The large room was empty, although the candles were still warm to the touch, suggesting the king had only recently left.

She sat in the chair facing his usual seat, on the opposite side of the desk, and relit the candles to provide more light. After a moment's hesitation, Lo Jun rose again to also kindle a fire in the clean hearth—the king might not need the extra warmth, but she was unashamedly more delicate.

The shadows had lengthened with the arrival of evening when nearby shouts of men drew her from her work and to the window, although the angle was wrong and she could not see the courtyard. The boy Olly raced past, cradling what appeared to be Jon Snow's sword in his arms. At first the thought occurred to her that perhaps the wildlings had once again taken up arms, but with Jon Snow as Lord Commander, that did not seem likely. A cold dread gripped her heart as her imagination turned to the stories of wights recounted by more than a few wildlings _and_ brothers of the Night's Watch—surely she was not about to witness the dead returning to murder them all for past wrongs.

The dark shape that suddenly passed by caused Lo Jun to step back from the window in alarm, fingers closing instinctively on the bone-handled knife she had begun to carry with her in the past few days. She felt quite silly upon realizing not a moment later that it was only Stannis Baratheon wearing a customary frown, and not some ghoul from beyond the grave.

Her heart skipped a beat—not from fright this time—and she managed to school her face into an appropriately calm expression instead of smiling like some lovesick girl fawning over her first swain. The slight flush that crept up from beneath her high collar had just begun to settle when Stannis finally entered, stamping snow from the soles of his boots.

"There seems to be a commotion," she remarked in greeting. The king did not seem worried—if anything he appeared somewhat satisfied.

"The Lord Commander executed Janos Slynt."

She made a noncommittal sound. It was hard _not_ to know of Janos Slynt, considering the man's unpleasant bluster and annoying tendency to think dropping the names of his powerful 'friends' back in King's Landing would impress anyone. If he was truly so well-liked, she had reasoned after hearing him boast of his connections for the first time, surely he would not have been sent so far away. The man had thought himself worthy of some sort of commanding position, which was a ludicrous proposition—Lo Jun doubted Janos Slynt was capable of leading a mouse to a pantry, never mind overseeing the Night's Watch.

"I do not suppose there are any tears being shed," she said wryly, knowing that Stannis' thoughts on the matter were similar to her own. Privately she wondered if this had been Jon Snow's way of implementing the advice she had given him earlier that day—Janos Slynt was one of the ringleaders of opposition, for all he was a largely useless waste of space.

Stannis scoffed, tossing his gloves onto the table.

"Only by those who thought Slynt was their chance at glory."

Lo Jun doubted very much that anyone seriously expected that fat oaf to be anything but a braggart, so the amount of grieving was probably quite limited. She watched as Stannis inspected the papers she had laid out on his desk, both his unopened correspondence as well as the reports she had prepared earlier. His intense concentration was a little too deliberate, too careful, and she realized he was doing his best to avoid looking at her. The silence stretched until it was almost unbearable, but she refused to break.

"You are well?" he finally asked abruptly, directing a glance at her feet. "After…?" The last word hung in the air, an awkward, unfinished question.

"Yes," she said, her stomach fluttering warmly at the memory. She tried to keep her smile kind, knowing that Stannis would most likely interpret anything overly mirthful as a mockery of his discomfiture. "Are you?"

He shot her a glare. "I'm not that old yet."

Heat rose again on her face, this time irrepressibly. She had not intended her question as a slight against his age or abilities. Some men could be quite touchy about those subjects. The uncomfortable tension in the room grew, although perhaps that was her own embarrassment magnifying everything a hundredfold.

"I am sorry, Your Grace," she said to mollify him, "I meant, do you have regrets?" If he said yes, she would leave the room immediately, sparing them both the discomfort until some future point at which they would be forced to interact.

He drew a deep breath. "No," he replied curtly, and she relaxed somewhat. "What's done is done." Still, though, he continued to fidget, reshuffling his sealed letters into mess and stacking them once more.

"There is something on your mind." If they did not discuss it, preferably now, Lo Jun suspected that whatever it was would hang over them like an ill cloud.

Judging by the scowl and the clench of his jaw, it was clearly something he did not want to talk about. Stannis drummed his fingers on the back of his high-backed chair, eyes fixed on the neatly arranged papers laid out across his desk.

"You were not a maiden," he said finally.

She frowned, not understanding. "I have not been a maiden for many years," she reminded him, her tone lighthearted in jest. "I am thirty-one years of age—old, if anything."

Stannis grimaced. He looked acutely uncomfortable, as if his boots were made of nails or pieces of glass.

"That's not what I meant. I was not… your first."

"Ah." _That_ kind of maiden. She shrugged slightly with one shoulder. "No, you were not." Her first had been a captain in the Imperial Guard, a much older man who had thought he was clever in taking advantage of a youthful new face in the Court. She had easily denounced him as a traitor six months later, after finding his carelessly-hidden correspondence with the rebel General Pol Qo. The unfortunate man was also not her last sexual experience—there was no need to preserve her virtue, not when she would never marry into the YiTish nobility. The common folk cared less about such trivialities—had she ever been considered for a proposal, it would have mattered more that Lo Jun's mother had borne several boys, proving that her line was usefully fertile. Lo Jun studied Stannis curiously. "Does that trouble you?"

He seemed to be thinking it over. "No," he said finally, and eased himself into his chair. "It would make no difference."

She did not know what he meant by that, but chose not to take it as an insult. Perhaps he had been disappointed in her own performance—she had tried to bring herself to climax, but he was finished before she truly had a chance. That was likely the source of his unhappiness, she decided—she had taken from him, but given nothing in return.

"I am sorry for not giving you my own pleasure last night." She was embarrassed to have to apologize. "It was more… rushed than I expected."

His glare could have frightened even the most battle-hardened soldier.

"What does that mean?" he rasped.

She was startled, now more confused than ever. "You are unfamiliar with a woman's pleasure?" Had she misunderstood him a second time?

"It's not something with which I'm acquainted," he snapped, testily enough to raise her eyebrows. From his defensive tone, Stannis was more than slightly offended. Lo Jun was dismayed—not necessarily for herself, although talented lovers were hard to come by, but on his own behalf. It was common knowledge in Yi Ti that prolonging male pleasure by bringing the woman to climax at least once resulted in better health for men—only by absorbing the woman's essence for as long as possible could he safely expend his own. There were even scholarly books on the best techniques to be used by men in this regard, passed around frequently in the Imperial Court.

"I've… only ever done my duty," Stannis continued angrily, as she tried to make sense of his apparent unawareness. "There was never a reason to…" He faltered, as if the very idea put him at a loss. Lo Jun felt great sorrow for the man. Had he found intimacy so unpleasant thus far that he had not sought to learn? That no one had taught him? Small wonder there was no balance in his life, if he had never experienced so fundamental a thing.

She rounded the corner of his desk slowly, keenly aware of the rise and fall of his chest and the dark furrow of his brow.

"Would you like me to show you?" she asked gently.

Stannis did not answer. She half-expected him to reject her with the excuse that he had no time, but no dismissal came. Indeed, a savage hunger flashed quickly across his face before he managed to set his expression into something almost fiercely defiant instead.

She could not resist the pleased smile that crept over her face, like a cat with a secret. The king watched her with hooded eyes, the muscles of his jaw bunching, almost as if he were daring her to come nearer. She was more than happy to accept that challenge.

He said nothing as she straddled him, settling carefully into his lap. It was fortunate that she was not dressed in skirts—she wanted him to see, this time, not grope around blindly beneath layers of wool. She held his gaze without blinking as her deft fingers made short work of the laces on the front of her breeches. She felt his breathing grow heavy as she revealed herself to him, exposing only as much flesh as was necessary to permit their hands access.

She guided his fingers over her body without speaking, rewarding him with a quiet moan when he followed her direction with the unfailing precision only he could manage.

He was a timid student, but she was patient, and he learned.

* * *

 _A/N: Congratulations, you've now learned some basic ancient Taoist beliefs about sex and orgasm, before Confucianism came along and ruined the fun for everyone!_

 _Guest: I hope this chapter cleared it up a bit! The confusion last chapter was because Stannis didn't know, and in the moment didn't really stop to check, haha._


	28. Chapter Twenty-Seven

The thing about sin was, once you started, it was hard to stop.

Stannis had always believed Robert a feeble man at heart with his overbearing masculine swagger, surrounding himself with women and wine and seeking pleasure at all costs. Nowadays that opinion had not much changed, but Stannis could finally at least understand the allure of indulgence that had seduced his older brother. The smallest thing distracted him completely—a furtive exchange of glances, the briefest touch of a hand, the sweet, clean scent of long, black hair—and he found it easy to give in to desire. It felt _right_ , for all their affections took place unseen—it might have been immoral, but the guilt paled in comparison to the instinctive sureness that he had found a half of his soul that he did not even realize was missing.

Still, duty weighed heavy on his mind, at nearly all hours. Only Lo Jun's cool fingers on his temple, or her lips on his skin, would chase the burden from his thoughts. A part of him scorned his own weakness—he was the king, and he should need no comfort from _anyone_ , let alone a woman—but he never regretted the solace he sought in her arms. There was no substitute for the profound intimacy he felt when she spoke his name, murmured when they were alone. Selyse had never deigned even to pretend to treat him with such tenderness—she might have been his wife, but he meant nothing to her. After a lifetime of cold reserve, Stannis greedily soaked up the affections Lo Jun caringly gifted him like a starving man faced with a banquet of food.

If he had been prone to accepting his good mood for what it was, he might also have recognized the effect his contentment had on those closest to his heart. Shireen spent long hours of her day reading quietly in his study, keeping him company while he tended to matters of command. He did not have the heart to send her away, even though his many of his affairs were hardly appropriate for young ears. Davos too had taken to jesting more openly with his liege, whose temper was no longer quite so quick to rise and who occasionally even honored his Hand with a grudging bark of a laugh.

Stannis was satisfied. Everything was going as it should. Roose Bolton still had the superior numbers and strong castle walls behind which to safely hide, but Stannis was certain he could outwit the craven traitor and his mad son. The king and his host were prepared to leave Castle Black within days, hounded by the skies threatening snow and the rapidly-dwindling supplies from the Night's Watch, and Stannis was grimly confident that they would march to victory. He did not have to think now of the problems that had accumulated without any intent on his part regarding his own personal situation. He could ignore the nagging question of what to do with his mistress and his priestess and his queen wife, leaving that for another day.

"I am proud of you," Lo Jun had whispered one night as she lay curled against his side, the mingled sweat of their bodies cooling in the wintry air. He had tensed, unsure of how to respond and caught off guard by her simple praise. He did not know how to express the warmth he felt at her words, or even if he wanted to reveal himself in so vulnerable a fashion. But Lo Jun had rolled over to rest her chin on his chest, peering at him with a knowing smile.

"You do not have to say anything," she had told him, her dark eyes twinkling with loving mischief. "I do not tell you because I expect anything in return." He had been relieved, grateful that she placed no demands on him that he could not grant. It was an odd sensation—he was not accustomed to be _given_ anything freely, without some hidden motive. Indeed, for a moment he struggled with an involuntary feeling of suspicion that she really _was_ concealing some selfish purpose. But then she had taken him in her firm hands and in her lovely mouth, and soon enough, he forgot all about his uncertainty.

It was remarkable how different bedding Lo Jun was compared to the awkward, reluctant coupling he undertook with Selyse. Stannis was not a man who craved the pleasures of sex—aside from the direct consequence of producing heirs, he never saw a point in the act. He certainly never understood why men chased skirts so doggedly. Or rather, he did not understand _before now_.

Her fingers drew invisible sparks from his skin, her lips a brand that seared his flesh with every delicate press. He was clumsy, hesitant—a fumbling boy compared to her experienced patience. More than once he had paused, flustered by his unfamiliarity and resentful of the lifetime that had left him so woefully unprepared for such things. But there was no shame there for him, not when she encouraged him to explore, experimenting with new ways to send her soaring into the same trembling heights where her touch brought him.

"I like it this way," she would sometimes tell him huskily, and he would oblige. Stannis had loved learning, after all, ever since he was a child. The learning did not stop just because he was now gray of hair.

He could still feel the thrill of the previous night as he sat at his desk, alone in the late morning. Concentration was an effort—the sun was out, for the first time in a sevenday, and the high trill of songbirds on the rooftops accompanied the croak of ravens. It was a day for courtyard sparring and physical activity, not sitting inside buried in rolls of maps and scout reports. But Stannis was a king and a commander, and he has other responsibilities than did his knights. So there he remained, albeit with some displeasure.

"Your Grace." Stannis looked up as Jon Snow darkened his doorstep, shadowed by the massive white direwolf that stared unblinkingly at the king with indifferent red eyes. "Might I have a word?" Stannis eyed the wolf and its lolling tongue before beckoning the Lord Commander inside with a curt jerk of his hand. Jon Snow entered, pushing his enormous, extraordinary pet back outside with one surprisingly gentle foot, and closed the door behind him.

"What is it?" asked Stannis, his tone brusque. He had not forgotten the boy's earlier refusals to help him raise the North, despite Stannis' generous offer of legitimization. It smarted a bit, that the one true King would be forced to request aid from a bastard whose half-brother sought to secede with half the kingdom. On the other hand, it was hard to stay truly angry with Jon Snow. There was a quality to the lad that even the honorable Ned Stark had lacked, a charisma that drew men to him despite his apparent unwillingness to mire himself in politics and the endless pursuit of winning favors. The new Lord Commander was a man who let his actions speak for him—a quality Stannis Baratheon appreciated perhaps more than most.

"Your ships at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, the ones that brought winter provisions for your army—where will they go after this?" Stannis eyed Jon Snow thoughtfully.

"I haven't ordered them anywhere yet," said Stannis. The small fleet was anchored at Eastwatch partly for lack of anywhere else to go, and partly because of an ice storm that had temporarily closed off the bay. "Why?"

"There are thousands of wildlings remaining at Hardhome, up at Storrold's Point. I intend to bring them to the Wall, and let them pass through the Black Gate."

The king stared at the Lord Commander for a very long moment, not entirely sure he had heard correctly the first time.

"You intend to what?" Jon Snow's face was determined. Clearly the boy did not come here to seek _advice_ —he had decided on this course of action already, and now it was just a matter of implementation. He would do it with or without Stannis' help, if it came to that. The king's respect for the Lord Commander grew, albeit somewhat grudgingly. Jon Snow was making his own decisions, at least, as a leader should—and as he must. But this plan would affect Stannis' kingdom, and _that_ required discussion.

"We must get to them before the White Walkers. If we don't, we'll be facing an army of wights in untold numbers, thousands upon thousands stronger than we can imagine." He had a point. The undead could be anyone. It did not matter if the person had been a warrior in life or a milkmaid—they were equally difficult to kill, and equally dangerous in great numbers.

"They're wildlings," said Stannis. Personally, he harbored no specific ill will towards them—anyone not with him was against him, wildling or not, and the Free Folk who had assaulted Castle Black had already refused to bend the knee—but rescuing the ancient enemy of the Night's Watch would not sit well with the other brothers. He fixed Jon Snow with a shrewd look. The boy knew this, most certainly, and yet still pursued this strategy.

"They're _people_ , Your Grace. They might not be from the Seven Kingdoms and they might not kneel, but those are women and children, the old and the sick—they'll be slaughtered like cattle, and then marched south as unstoppable fodder for the White Walkers."

So, it was a commitment to human life that drove the Lord Commander. How _compassionate_. Stannis grimaced, knowing he could not entirely fault the boy for his sentiments. After all, he was Ned Stark's son, and doubtless the Starks had filled his head with lofty notions that valued pure righteousness over pragmatism. Ned Stark had always believed in that nonsense so strongly it inevitably led him to an early grave.

But no, that was unfair. Jon Snow was not doing this _just_ out of a desire to protect the defenseless. Stannis also saw value in keeping more bodies from the grasp of whatever demons lurked beyond the Wall, and on that point he could not but agree with this strategy. It just so happened that the practical reality coincided with an opportunity for Jon Snow to be the noble man his father had raised him to be.

"And what part do my ships play in this great plan of yours?" He knew, of course. He just wanted the boy to say it outright. It would do him good to learn how to best ask a king for favors.

Stannis was pleased when Jon Snow did not hesitate. "I request you lend me those ships anchored at Eastwatch to carry passengers back to the Wall. As many as you can spare, Your Grace," he added politely. It was boldly asked, as befitted the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

"And once my ships have ferried your precious cargo back to Eastwatch, you propose resettling them in the North?" Stannis asked mildly, letting Jon Snow realize on his own that perhaps he needed permission for more than simply the use of ships.

"Surely you see the virtue of bringing these people within the safety of the Wall, Your Grace." The Lord Commander was taken aback that Stannis would even consider denying the wildlings a safe haven. "The land near the Gift is largely uninhabited—there is plenty of room for them to remain, and they are easily within reach of the Wall should they prove unruly."

"The Seven Kingdoms are mine by right, Lord Commander," Stannis reminded him tersely. "Those who live here behind the Wall do so by my favor, and mine alone."

"The wildlings did not ask to be born outside your kingdom, Your Grace," argued Jon Snow. "You came to save the world from doom—saving us and the Seven Kingdoms also includes saving them."

"And yet they will not fight for me." Stannis stared reproachfully at Jon Snow, who matched the king's glower with a fierce look of his own.

"That does not make them any less deserving of protection." The boy's tone was frosty, and Stannis was suddenly reminded of Ned Stark's open disapproval of Robert's ruthless pursuit of the surviving Targaryen children in the last days of the Rebellion. Like father, like son. Ned Stark was lucky Robert thought of him as a brother—Stannis imagined Robert would not have appreciated being preached at.

"Fetch your wildlings, Lord Commander," he said finally. "But remember, no good deed goes unpunished. I advise you to make sure your brothers do not put a knife in your back."

"To lead, a man must make difficult decisions even if they render him unpopular." The confidence in Jon Snow's voice was a thin veneer over his uncertainty—Stannis heard it plainly. The king frowned, although he would freely admit that he shared the sentiment. Jon Snow was right, even if the boy did not yet wholly believe it.

"Arrogance is many a man's downfall, Lord Commander." Stannis reached once more for the quill, his last words an unambiguous dismissal.

Jon Snow paused at the threshold.

"Then at least I may do something good before I meet my end."

Stannis scowled at the Lord Commander's back. His glare deepened as Melisandre suddenly materialized just outside the door, causing Jon Snow to shy away reflexively with a nervous half-apology. It had been obvious for days now that the priestess made the young man deeply uncomfortable—she was always watching him like a hawk fixed on a hare, and would give no reason except a look of admonishment when Stannis pressed her for an explanation. Now Jon Snow practically fled, his direwolf trotting hot on his heels. There was a time when Stannis might have been jealous of the boy, believing that the Red Woman desired someone younger than an old man like the king, but now he merely noted their strained interaction with cool disinterest.

Melisandre took in the sparse surroundings of his makeshift study with something that bordered on vague interest. Slowly, casually, she approached his desk until she stood close enough that he could smell the light perfume on her long crimson hair, staring down at him with her hands clasped before her.

She examined him carefully, with a keen interest she had not shown him in many long months. As she scrutinized him, Stannis had the uncomfortable sensation of being a bug pinned between a cat's paws, or some specimen on a maester's cutting board. Heat rose beneath his collar, and he was acutely aware of the cold beauty of her face—so perfect, like a mask—as she pursed her lips in thought.

"You are lost to me," she mused. He suddenly felt shame, for some reason he could not quite understand. It made him irritable.

"I don't belong to you," he snarled, irked by the nagging sensation that at some point, it had been true. Melisandre's indulgent smile revealed already she knew.

"You belong to the Lord of Light," she reminded him. "No amount of fighting that truth can change it."

"I'm not here for your god." He kept no gods. He needed no gods. The only reason he needed the priestess still was for the continued support of his converted men—he could not dismiss her without losing them also.

"The Lord has brought you here," she emphasized. He drew in an annoyed breath, grinding his teeth. "Still you doubt? After all that you have seen, all that I have showed you?" Melisandre seemed astonished, her eyes wide and searching. Stannis did not want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that the visions she had shown him still troubled him—the situation at the Wall was direr than he had expected, and the chilling stories told by the Night's Watch and the wildlings did nothing to ease his anxiety.

"I came to the Wall to save my kingdom," he managed to grate out. Melisandre frowned at him, shaking her head ever so slightly.

"The Lord of Light brought you here to do His work," she contended, as if he were an argumentative child and she his tutor. "You know where the true threat lies—beyond the Wall. You still need the Lord's help to retake the North and defeat the Others. Do not cast His servants aside so carelessly."

Stannis grimaced, casting his gaze instead at the map showing the last-minute arrangements he had discussed with Davos for their impending march to Winterfell.

"You're displeased I no longer seek your counsel—"

"You believe I am envious? It is not my concern who shares your bed." Her callous, amused words were a slap to the face. He had known, of course, since that long ago day when she rejected him on Dragonstone, but having the words actually spoken aloud renewed his anger and sense of betrayal. "Do you need my blessing? Your wife has done her duty to you in that she supports you, believes in you—her family has followed her example of faith and rallied to become the backbone of your cause. But she has given you no sons and," here she smiled sadly, an expression that offended him with how meaningless it truly was, "No pleasure. Do what you wish, my King. But remember, your blood has power, and you must guard it. Remember how the son I gave you drained you so terribly of strength. Choose _wisely_ with whom you share what remaining power you have."

And with that, the Red Woman left, her head held proudly high like always. Stannis watched her go with a churning sensation in his gut, as if her words were yet another warning from her mysterious god. The omens never ceased—there was always a catastrophe looming on the horizon and it was always up to him to prevent it. He ground his teeth some more, glaring with enough intensity at the papers on his desk that he imagined they might be set alight.

He had been content living in a fantasy world where there was no need to confront the complications created by his involvement with Lo Jun. It was selfish of him to place his own personal gratification above his duty. He did not _want_ to stop, but something would have to give eventually.

He had successfully made it through half the meager stack of letters earlier before setting them aside. They were all rejections by the remaining northern Houses, some more polite than others—the response from that damnable Mormont girl was enough to set his teeth on edge by itself—and it had sorely tested his patience to open them all, even though he already knew what they would say. There was one, however, that caught his wandering eye, stuck between a missive from House Umber and a crumpled, stained message sent from some of the mountain clansmen who lived north of Winterfell.

It was a letter from House Bolton, stamped with their gruesome sigil.

He tore the parchment open, uncaring of the way in which his rough treatment destroyed the top half of the letter. Stannis read it once quickly, his brow furrowing first in astonishment and then in fury.

He read it again.

 _Sansa Stark will wed Ramsay Bolton at Winterfell_.

His heart sank as the meager food he had eaten for a morning meal turned to stone in his stomach. _Sansa Stark_ was alive? Not only alive, but in the clutches of the Boltons—the very family that had betrayed her own and slaughtered them like livestock. Stannis' first reaction was to dismiss the claim as ludicrous. No one had heard of the Stark girl since she had gone missing after Joffrey's death. Sure this "Sansa" was a fake, some lowborn girl plucked out of a village for her unfortunate resemblance to the real Sansa Stark, and played off to win the loyalty of the northern Houses who still wavered when it came to the Boltons.

But he realized then that it did not matter. Real Sansa Stark or not, what mattered was that everyone else in the North believed it. If the Boltons could convince the Umbers and the Mormonts and the rest of the truth in this marriage, then a fake Stark was as good as real.

It was a brilliant strategy. Tying the Boltons to the ancestral Wardens of the North entwined their position irrevocably with that of the Starks. Sansa Stark was now Sansa Bolton—and without a trueborn brother to claim the House, the Starks would be replaced entirely by the Boltons in as few as nine godsforsaken months. For those who denied the Bolton claim to Winterfell, a child born of that union would be the best hope they had of the Stark blood surviving the calamity that had befallen them—they would have no choice but to support it, because Ned Stark's blood would run through those tainted veins.

And what choice did _he_ have? He was wed already, to a House that had lost its holdings and had no influence whatsoever in the North. Shireen had nothing to offer the northerners, besides his name—and the disfigured daughter of the King in the Narrow Sea was nothing to boast of, not now. Moreover, she was entirely too frail to survive this harsh landscape and these even harsher people—he would not have contemplated brokering a marriage even if a worthy House could be found. Perhaps to Jon Snow, had the boy accepted his offer of legitimization, but the bastard remained a Snow and wedded to the Night's Watch.

All he had were his men, many of whom certainly would appreciate the opportunity to marry into a House—any House—that had not lost its land as a result of rebellion. Them, and his perplexing foreign spymaster.

Stannis wanted her; he desired her, needed her. But Lo Jun could not offer him anything, not like the Stark girl offered the Boltons. Their relationship, whatever it was, was nothing but a vanity, just as doomed as his quest for the North if he could not wrest Winterfell from the despicable flayed men.

Melisandre's earlier words echoed in his mind. He knew that Sansa Stark's blood also possessed power. It was not the blood of kings—there would be no magic wrought from her veins—but it was almost as good. Her offspring would be Boltons in name, but more importantly Starks by blood—they would bind the North together far better than the fear Roose Bolton now used to bring the other Houses in line. With her brothers dead and lost, Sansa and the blood she carried were the keys to the North. Whoever had her in hand was as good as victorious—whoever gave her children would rule the North.

The Red Woman was right. His involvement with Lo Jun was folly, an indulgence doomed to failure from the very start. His blood had power, and his line was the line of kings—he would have to guard it, and use it carefully to his best advantage.

He had never much liked Ned Stark, despite—or perhaps because of—whatever similarities they may have had as men of duty. Stannis had even hated the man, his bitterness at being replaced in Robert's heart by some stoic, unrelated northerner something that could not be overcome even with the passing of years. But it was Stannis' duty as king to right the wrongs in his kingdom and to bring justice to those aggrieved. Even if Sansa Stark had willingly agreed to wed Roose Bolton's bastard, the Starks as a family deserved vengeance. He would free her, liberate Winterfell, and secure the North.

Stannis found Lo Jun in the Castle Black library, buried amidst scrolls and dust. Her long hair was unbound and appeared wet—he could smell the soap she used even from this distance, a clean scent that cut intoxicatingly through the perfumes and sweat that ordinarily filled his nose. The fat Tarly boy was there as well, chattering to the wildling girl who had given Stannis bread that one fateful morning. Both stood in a panic, stammering a greeting that he did not return.

"Out," he commanded. "I need to speak with Lo Jun alone." They complied, casting curious glances between the king and the YiTish woman, who merely waved a silent goodbye. Stannis did not speak again until he was sure the door to the library had swung securely shut.

Lo Jun smiled at him then, sending a dagger into his heart. Like usual, his scowl did not deter her—she looked at him with the unbridled joy of someone who had not beheld his face in years. He steeled himself against what must be done, drawing a deep breath and holding it for a moment.

"I've decided to give you a task during the march to Winterfell." He did not—could not—look at her. "You'll remain at Castle Black with a number of men, to help fortify against whatever may come."

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as her open surprise was replaced by uncertainty and tentative acceptance. He ground his teeth in discomfort. As king, he did not have to explain himself. He knew she would do as he ordered—she loved him, after all—and yet he could not help but feel she deserved more justification.

"Jon Snow will be returning with those wildlings who remain beyond the Wall—I need you and your cousin's men to be here and ensure any dissenters within the Night's Watch don't prevent his return."

Lo Jun frowned slightly. "Do you not need all of the men currently with you for the battle at Winterfell? There will be casualties on the way there," she reminded him.

"I can spare a few," he said sharply, unhappy that she seemed to be arguing with his decision. It was a plain lie. He needed all of the men at his disposal, but he was not coldblooded enough to leave Lo Jun _alone_ at Castle Black, surrounded by these criminals. Soon even Jon Snow would be gone, and Samwell Tarly was so weak a boy that Stannis understood why his father had disowned him.

She appeared to be struggling to say something, her teeth biting at her bottom lip.

"It will… be difficult to be apart," she said quietly, her sad quick smile a new lash on his conscience. Against his better judgment, his temper flared. She was not the only one facing a difficulty here—this was just as painful for him as it was for her. But it was a necessity. It was an _inevitability_. To pretend otherwise was idiotic.

"What did you expect?" Stannis snapped. "What—that we would someday wed? I cannot marry a _commoner_. You have no land, no title—I would gain nothing from tying myself to you." He gritted his teeth, remembering Sansa Stark. He had a duty. "Kings must marry for alliances, not for desire."

She was so still that she may as well have been carved from stone. Her face was frozen in the old impassive expression she used to wear around him, before he allowed her to get too close, too familiar—to see it again cut him deeply, but he reminded himself that their dalliances had to end. Moreover, he could not take his words back, even if he wanted. Only the two bright spots of color that burned high on her cheeks suggested she had any reaction at all.

"As you say, Your Grace," she finally replied. Inexplicable anger flashed through him, white-hot fury mingling with the hurt that she did not even fight him. It was not right of him to expect her to argue—she served him, and as king he required obedience from her—but a part of him inside screamed for her to push back, to challenge him so that he could feel justified in his fury.

They stared at each other for a long moment. He broke first, spinning on one heel to stalk out of the library, fists clenched stiffly at his sides.

They did not speak for several days.

Stannis nursed the hurt and anger and shame like a wound, furious and short with everyone unlucky enough to chance across his path. He shouldered equal blame for this mess, but it was impossible not to think that if Lo Jun had only controlled herself, this would never have happened. She was the one who kissed him; she was the one who allowed him into her bed. It was unfair of her to be hurt when this was the only logical conclusion to their affair. His words were harsh, but true.

He did not want to think about whether they were also needlessly cruel.

At last the horses were saddled in the courtyard of Castle Black, the few wagons remaining laden with as many provisions as could be scavenged from the surrounding landscape. Men in armor mounted their steeds or rested their feet, saving their energy for the long march before them. There was order in the chaos, if one bothered to look closely, but the knights and sellswords milling about like addled sheep were doing nothing to dispel that notion.

Amidst the last-minute disorder, Stannis' daughter was the very picture of despondency. He had told her only that morning that Lo Jun would not be accompanying them to Winterfell, and Shireen's reaction was nothing short of dismay. She stood now with Davos, a tiny gray-clad waif who refused to meet anyone's gaze. The former smuggler had his maimed hand on the princess' shoulder and was speaking to her quietly, no doubt comforting her. Stannis fought envy—his daughter never asked _him_ for consolation—but pushed it roughly aside. He did not have time to concern himself with the emotions of a young girl.

Movement on the walkways ringing the walls of the courtyard caught his eye. Lo Jun had come to stand at the railing, bundled in all black like a malnourished brother of the Night's Watch. Her dark eyes were hollow as they swept over the scene below her, the shadows on her face a telltale sign of the same sleepless nights that now plagued him. His heart twisted, but he made no acknowledgement of her presence.

He watched as she glanced down to where Shireen and Davos stood and smiled. His daughter pressed close to Davos and furiously scrubbed tears off her cheeks, turning them bright pink in the cold air. Lo Jun raised a hand in farewell then disappeared once more into the gloomy depths of Castle Black.

She did not look back at him.

* * *

 _A/N: Oops, I made everything worse._

 _KioshiUshima: Haha! Sneak chapter. Papa Stannis is the best. Right now though, he's uh, going through a crisis. Another crisis. An extended crisis._

 _Guest: Thank you! :D_

 _Cookie. Monster 67: I know, it's terrible. I started out with a chapter a week, but work usually gets in the way. I wish I had more time, but after I've written endless nonsense for my day job, all I want to do is vegetate on my couch watching King of the Hill with a pint of ice cream. Delaying the romance for so long is also totally not a usual choice for fanfics either, but it's Stannis! The man has the emotional ability of a slab of granite. Whirlwind love just ain't his thing. Although personally I'd have a hard time not jumping Stephen Dillane!Stannis immediately._


	29. Chapter Twenty-Eight

The snows closed in. Whatever vestigial winter they had experienced at the Wall, it was nothing compared to the bone-aching cold that now swept down from the skies. There was no way to stay warm. Running, jumping, huddling together for heat—all of it worked for perhaps an hour, maybe two, before the freeze overtook all attempts to fend it off. It did not help that the snow clung to the thick wool of clothes and melted then iced over on armor and leather. Stannis' army consisted of staggering icemen, now, miserable and despairing in the endless cold.

They camped at the base of a hill, sheltered at least from the howling winds that bore down from that direction. And there they stayed, for one day, then two, then more. The winter storm was an impassable obstacle, in a way more solid even than the Wall to the north. Winterfell was close, so near that Stannis could have ridden there in a matter of days.

Remaining encamped was a risk in and of itself. The host was large enough that it could not be well-guarded at all times, particularly not when a lone sentry faced a very real chance of freezing to death while on watch. Ill-defended even when on the move, they became an easy target for raiders who swooped in out of the darkness, torching wagons of supplies and killing sleepy men made even more lethargic by the cold. It seemed these bandits were everywhere all at once—none of Stannis' bannermen could tell him accurately how many there were or from whence they had come. After the third such raid in almost as many days, Lo Shan had taken matters into his own hands—the mercenaries returned the next morning with two unfamiliar corpses, both wearing the flayed man embroidered onto their surcoats.

The raids lessened after that, but the snows did not. Desperation grew, but the men were too tired and cold to pick fights with each other. Thievery became rampant, as cloaks and gloves and extra layers started to go missing—taking a hand was a self-defeating punishment for an army, but floggings became commonplace. With each passing day, Stannis began to wonder if this was not perhaps some divine punishment for the crimes he had committed during his life—Renly's death, Stannis' own infidelity, his shame over his daughter, and so many more.

The Red Woman came to him late one afternoon, a vision of glowing health even amidst the steadily declining state of his army. For a moment, Stannis believed again—it was not hard to see why more of his men had started to seek the priestess' blessing in these difficult times. Her rosy cheeks reminded him of summer's warmth, a glaring contrast to his own gaunt and unshaven visage. She was a vibrant splash of color in an otherwise drab and depressing landscape of white and gray.

She cut an especially strange figure when compared to the bedraggled Davos Seaworth, who deposited small mounds of snow on the floor as he pushed his way through the tent flaps of Stannis' temporary residence.

"Forty horses died in the night," said Davos. Stannis grimaced. Not even a greeting for the beleaguered king, just a report of the latest bad news. "We'll lose more come sunset. We're running out of food, can't open the supply line until the snow clears." His Hand stared at him with something that bordered on reproach, and it took Stannis a moment to realize the man was hesitating.

"What else?" the king rasped. _Just spit it out_ , he wanted to snap, but that would have taken energy that Stannis did not have.

"At least the Red Horde remains, but they're getting worse by the day. Lo Shan won't let them kill their horses for food; they're cavalry, but they're not gonna do much good if they're dead." Stannis grunted. He had found no reason yet to distrust the Red Horde, but mercenaries were mercenaries. "We still have a hard march to Winterfell, but we won't be marching anywhere in this weather."

"And?" That much was obvious. They had been snowed in for days, and there was no sign of the storm breaking.

"This isn't our time." Clearly Davos did not have the strength to be diplomatic, either. His expression mingled defiance with hope—he would force his advice upon Stannis and impress upon his king the importance of listening to wise counsel. "We should head back to Castle Black. When the snow clears—"

"I retreated once from King's Landing, Ser Davos," Stannis interrupted frostily. "If I retreat again, I become 'the King Who Ran.'" There could be no question that the Seven Kingdoms laughed at him already, and he refused to give them any more reason to sneer at the rightful king. Davos tried to cut in, but Stannis continued over him without caring. "Winter is coming. Those aren't just the Stark words. That's a fact." Every man could feel the biting cold that signaled this coming winter would be far crueler than the last. "If we march back to Castle Black, we winter at Castle Black. And who can say how many years this winter will last?"

"It's better to wait for the right time, than risk everything." Ever cautious, was Ser Davos. Stannis clenched his teeth.

"This _is_ the right time, and I will risk everything, because if I don't, we've lost." He could not wait years while the Boltons consolidated their hold over the North using Sansa Stark. They certainly did not have years until the White Walkers beat down the gates at the Wall. "We march to victory or we march to defeat. But we go forward—only forward."

Davos threw a frustrated glance at Melisandre, no doubt blaming her for his king's obstinacy. He would likely hold her entirely accountable for each and every loss they sustained on this march, even if it was Stannis' own determination alone that had put them in this position.

"Your Grace." Davos said, bowing slightly before taking his leave. His report was done, his efforts at persuasion foiled. There was no arguing with the king, not now. Stannis would never, ever turn back from his course. He simply could not—it was not in his nature.

With Davos gone, Stannis turned back to the Red Priestess, who had remained silent during the entire exchange with his Hand. Since leaving Castle Black she had been like a gargoyle perched on his shoulder, constantly watching from out of the way. Her company was a source of extra stress that he did not appreciate.

"I've trusted in your visions," he spat bitterly at her. "In your prophecies, for _years_."

"You saw it yourself, my king, when you stared into the flames." She spoke to him as if he were a child who needed reminding in a vital lesson. "A great battle in the snow."

"I don't know what I saw."

"You do know. Trust yourself." Oh, he hated her in that moment. _Trust_ himself? Meaningless words coming from her. She had sought to mold him into a shape that suited her needs, her wants, always second-guessing a plan of his that did not include her—never before did she encourage him to accomplish his fated task _on his own_. There was only one person who could have done that, and she was leagues away because of Melisandre's advice.

"And you? Do you trust yourself?" The words came out like poison. Of course she trusted in herself—never did she show him any inkling of doubt or uncertainty in her visions. Stannis wanted to know if she ever had those thoughts, to make her more human than she was, but his hope was futile.

"I trust in the Lord," Melisandre told him, her faith the answer as always.

"Are you sure?" Perhaps he would have had more confidence in her if she had admitted to weakness. It was impossible for her to _always_ trust her god. But instead she approached him until she stood mere inches away, her face so close he could feel the heat radiating from her pale skin. Her eyes were searching, capturing his gaze with their intensity.

"I have seen myself walk along the battlements of Winterfell." She spoke with such conviction that for a brief instant he could not help but experience a surge of his own faith. He looked away. "I have seen the flayed man banners lowered to the ground. "But sometimes, sacrifices must be made to ensure victory." The priestess paused, and he eyed her with suspicion. "I have shown you the power of king's blood."

"We don't have Robert's bastard here." And they would not have had the boy here anyway, even had Davos not thwarted Melisandre's plans before. The boy—Gendry, he remembered—would have been nothing but soot and bone by now.

"No," she answered slowly. "We have someone better. And your blood runs through her veins."

His stomach dropped, the blood roaring through his ears to reach a crescendo of disbelief. He stared at her incredulously, not entirely believing that she would even dare suggest such a thing.

"Have you lost your mind?" She must have, to speak of so terrible a crime. Stannis was already directly responsible for the death of one of his brothers; he did not wish to add to his list of unforgivable sins.

"Do you doubt me?" Melisandre looked at him beseechingly, imploring him to understand. _I do_ , he wanted to shout, _because I am still sane!_ Any man in his right mind would refuse immediately. Only a true monster would agree, and he was no monster. He did not _want_ to be one.

"There must be another way. Leeches, or—" He cast his gaze wildly about the tent for another idea.

"There is only one way." She grasped his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her once more. "You _must_ become king before the Long Night begins. Only you can lead the living against the dead. All your life has led us to this moment—to _this_ decision."

"She's my daughter." Stannis had risked bankrupting his House and spreading grayscale to all of Dragonstone for Shireen once before. He had quite literally faced death for her—he could not now condemn her to die because it served his purposes, no matter how dire the situation. Melisandre's gentle fingers stroked his temple, an insulting gesture that paled in comparison to the loving caress he craved. He jerked away in disgust.

"Get out," he snarled. She gave him a hurt, betrayed look, but he did not care—it was not _she_ who should be upset at this moment. She offered to sacrifice nothing, yet demanded he proffer up the thing most precious to him in the entire world. He did not watch her depart, focused as he was on his disbelief and anger, knowing in absolute terms that this was something he would not, _could not_ , do.

But what if Melisandre was correct, whispered a small part of his mind. She had foreseen the deaths of the two main usurpers to his claim, after all, and the danger that approached from beyond the Wall. Was there truly no other option? The snow was an existential threat—he could not succeed if it continued. Returning to Castle Black was not an option, but then again, neither was doing _nothing_. Waiting for the storm to cease was likely just as much a folly as retreat. Perhaps winter was already upon them, and things would only get worse. His chances of successfully retaking Winterfell decreased exponentially the longer he tarried, and Stannis could not shake the feeling that maybe this was only the beginning of the end.

He wished Lo Jun were there to provide clarity, but she was not—and he had only himself to blame for that.

Stannis knew regret. He had many regrets, in fact. They had accumulated much like dust on a forgotten shelf, locked away in his mind for those moments of weakness when he was alone with only his thoughts for company. It was easy for him to ignore them—he had always done as he must, and his duty was a hard, impenetrable shield that protected him from doubts as to the righteousness of his actions. But his regrets now mingled with a growing repugnance towards Melisandre's faith, threatening to drown him in a rising tide. He had committed so many wrongs based on her visions, at her urging—when would it end? Would it _ever_ end?

He collapsed into the chair at the head of the table, staring with unseeing eyes at the array of maps spread before him.

Lo Jun would be ashamed of him, if she knew he was even contemplating the unthinkable. She would hate him, even more than she did now.

Stannis could live with being disliked by those he ruled. He was never popular—he had none of Robert's charisma or Renly's boyish charm. He was a dour, serious man whose unyielding sense of duty reminded others of their failings, a trait that won him no friends. The kingdom did not have to _like_ him—they only had to follow him, knowing that he would be fair and just, and would do anything to ensure their safety.

But could he live with being hated by _her_? Could he also live with knowing that in her last moments, his daughter would realize that her father—her beloved father, who had held her and saved her and comforted her in the night—was responsible for her cruel fate?

And why did he care? He would risk everything, the Red Priestess had said. He would betray everyone who followed him. Stannis always accepted as a given that he would fulfill that part of Melisandre's prophecies—it was easy to believe when he had deceived himself into thinking he valued fulfilling his duty above _everything_ else. Duty was his guiding light, the principle by which he had organized his life for many years, but the truth was that he had many duties and now they could not all be met. Which was most important? His kingdom, or his family? Or were they one and the same?

Lo Jun would have answered family, without hesitation. The bonds of kinship were essential to life, and all else came second. He had thought her backwards for believing so, for not understanding the value of duty to kingdom and the crown. But the very notion of losing Shireen was enough to change his mind—it brought him back to the terrible day she came down with grayscale and he first faced the possibility that she would perish. He had refused to let her die then, stricken by cruel disease—he could not let her die now, especially not by his own hands. She was family, and she was precious.

Family. The word was like ash on his tongue. It was hardly the noble household Stannis envisioned in his youth. A wife as cold as the winter, and a daughter who deserved better than both her parents. He had chosen family above duty once before, when Robert called his banners to rise against the Targaryens. The fate of the Seven Kingdoms had hung in the balance that warm summer day, too—just as it did now.

Stannis picked a wooden carving up from where it rested on his map of the North. The intricately painted burning heart—the symbol representing his forces—was heavy in his hands. He turned it over in his fingers, feeling the flames like thorns prick his palms.

He would sacrifice much for his kingdom. And yet, if he took the Iron Throne but his line ended with him, what good would it do? A king without an heir was as good as useless. Stannis had long since given up hope that Selyse would ever bear him another child, let alone give him a son—only Shireen could continue his line. He might save the Seven Kingdoms from annihilation now, only to leave it to fall into ruin the moment he met his own inevitable end. He would be no savior then, merely an old warrior incapable of forging a lasting legacy. Pathetic, to take the throne and be defeated by a disaster of his own making.

If he burned his daughter at the stake—his _innocent_ daughter, whose only misfortune was being born to him—he would be no better than Mad King Aerys. He would be Mad King Stannis, who murdered his own flesh and blood, too wrapped up in the righteousness of his cause to see ten steps ahead of his own feet.

Melisandre had foreseen that he would betray everyone—but she had not said _how_. Grimly he tossed the carved burning heart away from him, not caring where it landed in the dirt. If not sacrificing Shireen meant he doomed them all to freeze and starve then so be it— _that_ would be his betrayal, his kingdom for his daughter.

Stannis would not become that king.

Evidently he dozed in the chair, for he woke there with a dreadful ache in his neck just as watery light was beginning to seep through the thin canvas walls of his tent. The braziers had gone out at some point during the night, leaving him shivering even beneath the layers of wool and leather he wore. With numb fingers he struck flint to relight the fires, for once cursing his distaste for keeping a squire who would otherwise be tasked with such mundane tasks. The flame had just caught when the warlock Rithipol Sarey arrived, accompanied by a stone-faced Lo Shan.

Like Melisandre, Rithipol Sarey seemed entirely unaffected by the grueling conditions of the army's march. Then again, he had always been a skeletal figure regardless of the availability of food, draped in expensive silks that never frayed or dirtied, and the present moment was no exception. It must be something about sorcerers, Stannis decided. They were not ordinary humans subject to the cruelties of the gods.

"Your Grace," the pale man spoke breathlessly. "I must speak with you. The matter is urgent." Stannis beckoned him closer with an annoyed twitch of his fingers. Rithipol Sarey was too agitated to be offended by the terse gesture, his bony hands fluttering about him randomly in distress. The warlock approached with quick, uneasy steps, his gray-blue robes flapping like wings.

"What is it?" the king asked tiredly. Another raid, most likely. How many men and supplies were lost this time? Lo Shan's sellswords had laid clever traps to ensnare the Bolton marauders, but they could not be everywhere at once. But the mercenary captain said nothing, his expression just as carefully blank as his cousin's when she was hiding her thoughts. Stannis pushed the pang of sorrow away for another time, turning his attention to the frantic warlock before him now.

"Castle Black," cried Rithipol Sarey, "It is in peril. Mortal peril, Your Grace, from beyond the Wall. I sense something approaching, the swell of a dark tide that will consume everything in its path." If it were possible, he seemed even paler than usual, his skin bleached a ghostly, sickening white.

"How do you know this?" Stannis demanded. The warlock spread his hands wide before him in a gesture of helplessness.

"After the… incident at Brightwater Keep, I created a talisman to keep Lo Jun safe. It informs me when danger approaches of a… magical nature." For an instant, Rithipol Sarey looked smug. "It is one of my finer works, if I do say so myself, Your Grace."

More magic. Stannis ground his teeth. He did not trust sorcery any more than he trusted in the gods, but this warlock had proven himself several times over since his arrival with Lo Shan's men. Rithipol Sarey was responsible for more than a few great feats, and Stannis had no reason to distrust the man's claims regarding the Wall. The warlock had always seemed unflappable, and his clear distress now was enough to lend credence to his warning—he was truly afraid, which made Stannis all the more willing to credit him now.

The king glanced at Lo Shan, who met his eyes squarely. A silent understanding passed between them.

Lo Jun was in danger, but Stannis could not ride to save her. He could not abandon his march to Winterfell. The bulk of his army lacked the horses and mobility to reach the Wall in time; not to mention, they had a greater chance of standing against the White Walkers if they were secure behind Winterfell's solid walls rather than out in the open, should Castle Black indeed fall. He _needed_ to defeat the Boltons, no matter what happened at the Wall, and the sooner the better.

"Can you dispel this weather?" the king questioned. The warlock had worked miracles before. Surely he knew of some method to save them that did not require Stannis to do the unthinkable. But Rithipol Sarey shook his head.

"I cannot." He looked grim. "This storm is not one of natural origins. There is a sorcery associated with it, a powerful one. I believe it is connected with the threat at the Wall. It is only normal, after all, that demons of ice and snow are preceded by the very same, yes?"

So, the weather was beyond anyone's control, meaning there was no hope of a brief respite to ease his march. There was only one option left to Stannis—he would press on to Winterfell now and entrench his army in a more advantageous position for a protracted siege. Better to be snowed in where he could still assault the walls and starve the Boltons out than to be trapped here, still miles away and exposed.

He made a swift decision.

"Send me Davos Seaworth," he ordered them, and pointed to Lo Shan. "Ready your men. You will be riding back to Castle Black immediately." The men bowed, and were gone, the warlock practically running on his slippered feet. Only a few minutes elapsed before Davos emerged from the entrance, his face wary at being summoned.

"You sent for me, Your Grace?" Stannis could not tell whether Davos was still angry at him for their last disagreement, but that did not matter now.

"Find some healthy horses," Stannis said to Davos, who blinked in surprise. "You ride to Castle Black with the Red Horde within the day."

"What about Winterfell?" asked Davos, plainly confused.

"I will continue to Winterfell. There's a threat at the Wall, Ser Davos." Apparently neither Lo Shan nor Rithipol Sarey had seen fit to explain the situation to Davos. "The warlock from Qarth has seen it."

"Your Grace," the former smuggler began carefully, after a moment's pause, "You named me your Hand."

"Yes." A blessing and a curse for them both. Stannis could not entirely regret it, but he had found that there were drawbacks to having someone actually give voice to his conscience.

"The King's Hand should never abandon his king, especially in time of war," Davos declared.

"You're not abandoning me; you're obeying a command." Now Stannis was playing with semantics. It was unfair to do that to Davos, who was an honest man. A good man. Better than his king, for certain.

"You are losing hundreds of men for an omen—you don't even know for certain if Castle Black is threatened, or if we'll get there in time to save anyone. The wildlings there can fight, and I think they'll certainly fight for their lives if the Wall is indeed in danger of coming down—which I highly doubt!"

"I don't need cavalry for a siege," Stannis snapped. "I _need_ the Wall to hold."

"This sacrifice is unwise—"

"Sacrifice is never easy, Ser Davos," Stannis told him, "Or else it is no true sacrifice." His Hand grimaced, still not confident in this plan. Stannis sympathized somewhat—he was not entirely convinced it would work, either, but his hands were tied. "You know why I ask this of you," the king said quietly.

Davos drew a deep breath, then let it out with an explosive sigh. "Yes," he admitted. "Although I wasn't sure you still felt that way since we began the march to Winterfell." Stannis clenched his teeth tightly.

"I… made a mistake, Davos," he said reluctantly. His Hand seemed astonished to hear those words. Stannis could not blame the man—in truth, it was not something he frequently confessed. "You will go to the Wall," he ordered. "And bring her back." _If she will come_.

Optimism fit him poorly, but it was all he had now.

The tent was calm once Davos left, with even the exterior sounds of men moving about muted as they filtered through the canvas. The swell of excitement that would naturally accompany the departure of almost all of his cavalry had not yet begun, and Stannis took the opportunity to enjoy the relative silence while it lasted. He was startled when Selyse slunk into the tent some time later, her face drawn and nervous. Indeed, she was so quiet he almost did not notice her come in, and for a moment wondered if she had been standing there long without him realizing it.

She seemed to be working up the courage to say something, and he waited impassively. Stannis had not particularly desired Selyse's company on the march to Winterfell, but he did not feel it prudent to leave his highborn wife and young daughter surrounded by criminals at Castle Black—that, and the Red Woman had encouraged him to bring them along with promises that they had important roles to play in his victory over the Boltons.

If only he had anticipated why. Alas, it was too late for that, now.

"The Lady Melisandre came to me last night," began Selyse, and Stannis grimaced. Of course the two had talked. "We spoke of… the sacrifice that must be made." She wrung her hands anxiously. "We prayed, my King—we prayed that you would understand the necessity, and that you would see that it would not be a sin if done in service to the Lord of Light."

Nausea threatened to overwhelm his senses. It was the same paltry excuse she had used to bless his cursed union with the Red Woman, only now she fed it to him in the hope he would harm an entirely blameless party. Had Selyse no spine, no backbone at all? He knew his wife was physically weak, suffering as she had for so long from whatever mysterious affliction ailed her, but she had never before revealed the true extent of her moral infirmity.

He _reviled_ her.

"Do you have any feeling left in that cold heart of yours, or are you just an empty shell?" His voice was low and dangerous, and he trembled with barely contained rage. Selyse looked stricken by the undisguised force of his hate, her mouth agape at his sudden venom. "I knew you didn't care about her," _about us_ , he thought, "But I didn't think you were a _kinslayer_."

"You're hardly blameless," she hissed, her face ashen. "Your hands are just as stained with your brother's own blood."

"Renly was a traitor!" he roared. His fingers seized upon a burning heart marking the deployment of his troops and he hurled the wooden figure blindly across the tent. It struck something metallic with a clang, making Selyse flinch. "Shireen has done _nothing_ —she is innocent."

"So was Robert's bastard," she whispered hoarsely.

"But I didn't kill him, did I?" he snarled. Brave, loyal Davos had spared him that stain on his soul. Once Stannis was prepared to condemn his Hand for that betrayal, but now he could not fault Davos for doing so. Besides, that boy was nothing to him—Shireen was his _daughter_. She was Selyse's daughter too, for all his wife wished otherwise.

"You would have," she whimpered. There was no concealing the disgust on his face when he looked at her. Before this, Stannis had not cared enough about his wife's devotion to the Lord of Light, but there was no denying it now: Selyse was irredeemably corrupted by her faith. Whatever last trace of affection he might have had for her was gone, evaporated into nothingness. He was done pretending, done living the charade—she was his wife in name only, and if he had a choice, she would not even be that. His heart belonged to someone else—someone with compassion, for all he often thought mercy was a weakness. Lo Jun would never have even imagined so heinous a thing.

Seven hells, he wanted her there.

"I don't ever want to see you again," he finally grated out. The glowing sword Melisandre had named Lightbringer was propped up against the side of the table—he snatched it up and gripped it tightly rather than wring Selyse's neck. She watched him with fearful eyes, as if she was not confident just then that he would not separate her head from her shoulders. "You may be my wife, but I will have nothing to do with you from this moment on."

Selyse fled. Stannis waited, twisting the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword in his sweating hands, for Melisandre's inevitable entry. His wife would of course send the priestess to talk some sense into him, but he had had enough of their fanaticism.

As expected, the Red Woman arrived only minutes later.

"My king," she began, fixing him with a look of reproach, "The ritual we spoke of before—"

"I will have no more burnings," he snapped. Melisandre's eyes bore angry holes into him. She was disappointed in his lack of faith, but he did not care. He turned away from her, tossing the shining blade haphazardly onto the table. Her eyes followed it, her disapproval clear. "Pray harder."

He was done with gods and the sacrifices they demanded.

* * *

 _A/N: Everybody makes mistakes sometimes. Some of ours end with sleeping on the bathroom floor while hugging the toilet, others are a little worse._

 _Guest: No apologies needed! Don't worry, it won't be all hearts and rainbows right away when they meet again. But eventually all things get better! Because this is fanfiction! And I am master of the universe!_

 _WitchoftheWilds: I'm sorry! But it makes for a more interesting story, I swear!_

 _KioshiUshima: Okay okay I promise I'm done jerkin' y'all around now. Er, I mean, for now._

 _Cookie. Monster 67: Oh man, staying inspired is the worst. But yes, square... well, square one point five. Ish. There's a happ(ier) ending eventually, I promise!_


	30. Chapter Twenty-Nine

The snows grew worse the day after Davos Seaworth rode north with the Red Horde. Howling winds threatened to upend the camp, and men huddled together around meager fires to stave off death. When dawn came to herald a brief respite from the elements, Stannis' army began to arduous process of digging itself out from the snow, which was several feet deep in some places where the wind had pushed drifts against tent walls. There were no horses left, not after the men had scavenged any remaining horse blankets for their own warmth and left their mounts to perish in the cold. Hopelessness was a heavy pall over the encampment.

No one glanced his way as Stannis emerged from his tent in the early morning, blinking in the cloudy light. He did not particularly mind being ignored just then—the last thing he wanted was a confrontation with uncomfortable questions to which he had no answers. Instead, he made his way through the deep snow to the small tent where Shireen was quartered. His daughter had proven surprisingly resilient thus far, but with the last few days of turmoil Stannis felt a pressing need to see her and ensure she was still in good health, or at least in as good health as could be expected. She was a ray of hope in this otherwise dreadful existence—he had lost Lo Jun, then Davos, and finally even Melisandre, but Shireen would always be there.

But her tent was empty. Stannis looked around for moment in confusion, yet nothing seemed out of place. Shireen's books were still on her modest, roughly-hewn table, and her bedding had been arranged neatly with the furs folded and piled on top. Only she herself was missing—well, she and her cloak, and the little wooden stag that Davos had so expertly carved for her at some point. Shireen had been carrying it around since Davos left with Lo Shan and the rest of the mercenaries, as if the carving gave her some comfort in the man's absence.

She did not run away, that Stannis knew. It would have been impossible in the previous day's snow. Not to mention Shireen would not have left without taking at least _one_ of her books, as impractical as they were. The girl might take off and forget to pack what little food she could scrounge, but she certainly would not have abandoned the tomes she held so dear.

He found a guard leaning on a spear outside, who looked half asleep in the cold.

"Where is Princess Shireen?" he inquired. The guard looked surprised, then supremely worried.

"Her Grace—the Queen," the man stuttered, "She and the Red Wom—er, the Lady Melisandre, they took the princess."

An icy fist gripped Stannis' heart like a vice and held it.

"Where," he demanded, but it was not a question. The guard pointed towards the copse of trees that began near the edge of camp.

"There, Your Grace," he answered fearfully, clearly understanding now that there was something wrong. "In the woods. Her Grace said something about praying there."

Stannis did not remember taking off at a run, but he found himself racing towards the line of trees with a desperation he never knew before. The cold air burned in his nose and throat and lungs, and exhaustion weighed his limbs down like a suit of plate armor. _Not fast enough_ , he thought in despair, an all-consuming terror giving his feet wings to carry him over the crunching snow. He scarcely noticed when he stumbled, his knees meeting the frozen ground in a burst of pain, and ignored the razor scrape of ice against his bare palms. Physical pain was nothing compared to the fear in his heart, numbing all other sensations.

The trees thinned before him into a small clearing filled with people. They stood before a crudely constructed pyre, built like a wooden platform as tall as his chest, with a cruel stake standing tall in the midst. There were faces there of men Stannis once thought loyal to him, but he did not care—the entirety of his vision was consumed with the image of a small, slender child without a cloak struggling frantically against the ropes that bound her to the stake in the pyre.

" _Father_!" Shireen's frightened, pleading shriek was a sound Stannis never wanted to hear again as long as he lived.

The clearing was as quiet as a grave, with all heads turned to stare at him. Most of the men there had the grace to look ashamed while a few seemed upset, but Stannis would deal with them later. He tore his gaze from his daughter to find his wife and the Red Priestess, who stood dangerously close to the pyre, brandishing a lit torch in one hand. Selyse was plainly afraid, while Melisandre's beautiful, terrible face was defiant and angry.

Stannis did not pause as he strode purposefully through the parting crowd, Lightbringer shining in his hand. The pyre was sturdy—the wood did not bend under his boots as he climbed.

"You cannot," Melisandre's voice rang out, clear as a bell.

Another time, another place, it might have given him pause. Were he still wrapped around her finger, anxious to please, perhaps he would have heeded her warning. But that time was past—she no longer held sway over him. The edge of Stannis' blade made short work of the rope securing Shireen to the stake, and she buried herself in his side the instant she was free. He pressed her close with one hand, and fixed the priestess with a hard look.

"I forbade you from burning anyone else," he said, and marveled at how calm his voice sounded, even to his own ears.

"Only the princess' blood can break the storm and assure you victory," snapped Melisandre.

"Nothing can stop the snow," Stannis snarled. "We will press on to Winterfell _regardless_ of what the gods put in our path."

"There is only one God," the priestess countered furiously, coming to stand before the pyre. "And He demands a king's blood!"

"You will not have my daughter!" His shout echoed through the clearing, leaving silence in its wake. Many of those who had come to witness the gruesome spectacle now cast doubtful looks between their king and their priestess—still, some, like Axell Florent, glared at Stannis with undisguised bitterness. Stannis might be king, but in that moment, surrounded by unwelcoming men clamoring for a sacrifice, he was an obstacle to survival, and he was vulnerable. He weighed his options—if he descended from the unlit pyre, he would sacrifice the high ground if his men turned on him. On the other hand, he did not trust Melisandre not to simply toss her torch into the pile of wood even with him standing atop it—he had never seen her so incensed, and his open rejection of her faith made her entirely unpredictable.

Luckily, he spied a group of plainly confused bannermen who had arrived on the heels of their king, their swords partially drawn. They were led by the hapless guard who had stood outside Shireen's tent—Stannis credited the man for following, even if he had ultimately failed in his duty to keep the princess safe.

Wordlessly Stannis pointed the sword he held—still glowing as if freshly pulled from the forge—to the newcomer nearest to him. For once, Justin Massey was not smiling, and he grimly stepped forward to answer his king. Massey was known as one of the queen's men, a knight who converted to the Lord of Light and followed the Red Priestess' commands. But Stannis had long suspected the man of mere opportunism—he was ambitious and proud, and saw this new faith as the quickest way to gain acclaim for himself and his poor, tiny House amongst all the other players. He was no true believer, and his initial absence at this burning spoke volumes of his true belief.

"Queen Selyse and the Red Woman are to be confined to separate tents under constant guard. No one is to let them out. These men," Stannis swept an arm to encompass those who had come to attend the sacrifice, "Are to be imprisoned as traitors to the realm."

There was only a momentary flicker of hesitation in Justin Massey's blue eyes before he nodded once. As he stepped forward, it seemed to break whatever spell the other bannermen were under—they fanned out, fresh hostility apparent in their faces. They were not fools—there was only one meaning to a pyre and a stake, and they knew _Stannis_ was not the one Melisandre planned to feed to the flames.

Gingerly, the king eased his daughter down the treacherous steps of the pyre. Her violent trembling was of no help, but Stannis suddenly found that he had all the patience in the world—she could have taken a fortnight to descend and he would not have left her there alone. Once on solid ground, he made sure—out of instinct more than deliberate plan—to place himself between Shireen and Melisandre as a shield of sorts. At the moment, the priestess seemed unlikely to attempt anything untoward, but Stannis did not want to burden his daughter with any more fear than she had already experienced.

"You are making a grievous mistake," Melisandre admonished him, her dark eyes full of anger and disappointment. A flash of uncertainty ran through his mind like lightning, but it was gone as soon as he glanced down to where Shireen clung to his side. Buoyed by the knowledge that he had saved his daughter—his only heir—Stannis ignored the priestess and made for camp, guiding Shireen with a tender arm around her frail shoulders. He looked back once to see Melisandre staring at him with the noble hauteur of a powerful queen, a chilling impassivity that spoke volumes of the betrayal she felt. He was supposed to be the Chosen One, the king who would save all the Seven Kingdoms from peril, and yet he discarded her despite her undying commitment to seeing that vision fulfilled. Stannis knew, though, that Melisandre was not loyal to _him_ —she was only loyal to what he was _supposed_ to be, and who she believed he should have been.

Everyone was wrong, sometimes. He was wrong for trusting her, and she was wrong about him.

As they approached the camp perimeter, Shireen disengaged herself from his side and began to dry the tears on her face with the edge of her cloak. Concerned, Stannis paused and watched as she not-so-subtly wiped her running nose.

"I want to show you I'm brave, father," his daughter said quietly. Stannis fought a hysterical laugh—did she believe he would think less of her for latching on to him so tightly just then? She was a girl child, not a grown knight—the fact that she had not fainted during this ordeal was proof enough that she had ample steel in her spine.

After a moment of thought, he extended his hand for her to take. There were no words to describe the paternal joy he felt as she flashed him a quick, relieved smile and entwined her fingers with his. If she wanted to show him she could walk on her own, he would give her that opportunity—but she was still his little girl, and she would always be.

There was no need for Stannis to order men to protect the princess. As soon as Shireen entered her tent—her back straight and her head held high, just like the future queen she was—no fewer than five guards assembled themselves to stand watch, their faces grim and determined. While Stannis had good reason now to doubt the loyalty of a fair number of his men, these he knew as adherents to the Seven—men who respected and admired Davos Seaworth, rather than those who followed the Red Woman's siren song. As difficult as it was to trust anyone just then, these men were the best Stannis could have hoped for—in an ideal world, he would have bidden Davos himself to stay with the princess, but without his Hand there, Davos' supporters would have to do.

A crowd had gathered before the king's tent, mixed between the queen's men and those wise souls Stannis remembered had eschewed the Lord of Light. News spread fast, like fire in a tinderbox—half the army unquestionably knew, by now, of the Lady Melisandre's abrupt and disastrous fall from the king's favor. Stannis disregarded their curious and fearful glances as he passed them by. He unbuckled the glowing sword from his side as he entered his tent, and tossed it carelessly onto the table along with the thick belt emblazoned with flaming hearts in gold—it was no longer his sword, just an expensive reminder of his arrogance and poor decisions. He would find a plain blade instead from the spares in the wagons, or if they had all been lost in raids, then he would take one from the dead. They had no need for their weapons anymore, and he could do with a humble reminder that swords cared not whether they were wielded by kings or farmers.

He reemerged just in time to see one of his bannermen still faithful to the Seven escort Selyse to the queen's tent, lifting the flap politely even as she ignored him with her typical highborn hauteur. Stannis was satisfied to see the man take up his station outside her tent, standing watch against any attempts by the queen to escape, or any attempts by her supporters to rescue her. Still, he frowned only a moment later.

There was one person missing.

"Where is the Red Woman?"

Silence greeted his demand, and the knights assembled before him exchanged increasingly worried looks. Surely someone had been keeping an eye on the priestess—but no, it seemed no one wanted to accept responsibility for their failure. Stannis clenched his teeth tightly.

"She's abandoned us!" someone cried out. A shocked murmur ran through the crowd. "We are doomed," the same voice babbled, only to be hushed by others. One brave soul—a minor hedgeknight from the crownlands with a face that reminded Stannis of a shattered clay pot that had been sloppily reassembled—stepped forward out of the crowd.

"The Red Woman escaped, Your Grace," the man said uneasily. He held a spear in one hand, the tip blackened with what appeared to be soot. The closer Stannis looked, the more he realized the same black powder covered this knight's armor, as if he had been standing too close to a fire.

"She worked magic, some flames that seemed to devour her, and she disappeared. Alekyne Florent tried to grab her, but she was gone." A shadow crossed the man's face. "Ser Alekyne has been badly burned, Your Grace. He'll most likely lose that eye."

"Alekyne Florent?" asked Stannis. The knight nodded.

"Yes, Your Grace. He and his uncle fought about… your order. They'd never really been on friendly terms since Brightwater, actually—Ser Axell denounced his nephew as a nonbeliever, and Alekyne told him he'd follow you unquestioningly, Your Grace, since you were the only reason he was saved at Brightwater Keep while the Red Woman wanted to abandon him and the rest of House Florent to the Tyrells." Stannis grunted in mild surprise. He had been aware of the tension amongst the Florents, but had not expected young Alekyne to actually have the backbone to stand up to his loudmouthed uncle.

"The Lady Melisandre is a traitor, and will be executed if brought to justice," the king declared to the crowd, his expression daring those who watched him with mouths agape to argue. There was no question about it—anyone who disagreed would find themselves next up on the chopping block. No one was willing to rise to that challenge—the crowd seemed to shrink and began to disperse, an alarming number of men barely concealing their anger or hopelessness, and some not bothering to hide it at all. Stannis dismissed them coldly—they had a duty to obey _him_ , not some fire priestess, and no choice in the matter.

The next day, Justin Massey sought an audience. While Davos would ordinarily bring Stannis any news regarding the army, Ser Justin seemed to have appointed himself Stannis' new man in the Hand's absence. The king was not surprised—trust Ser Justin to spot an opening to improve his position and take it.

"Your Grace," said Justin Massey, looking even more nervous than Stannis had been when summoned to meet Aerys Targaryen for the first time as a child, "The queen's men… the followers of the Lord of Light. They've…" He cleared his throat uncomfortably and Stannis fixed him with an annoyed look. "They've deserted, Your Grace."

Stannis stared at the man without speaking, immobilized by some invisible force. Strangely enough, he felt calm—he felt no anxiety, no fear, just a tranquil acceptance of his fate.

"How many?" His voice sounded alien to his ears. Was it truly him speaking?

"Half your men." Ser Justin answered despairingly.

Half his men. How many would have left if Stannis had indeed sacrificed Shireen? Would any of them have gone, or would they have understood? _Too late now for conjectures_ , the king reminded himself grimly, and turned his attention back to the man standing before him.

"You converted to the Lord of Light. Why didn't you go with them?" Justin Massey blanched.

"I, um," he stuttered, the usual rosy pink of his cheeks darkening with an anxious flush, "I suppose I was not as devoted to… that faith as the rest, Your Grace. Not to a faith that would burn a child, at least." The last part sounded like a self-assured truth, and Stannis believed Ser Justin. The knight was not a cold-blooded murderer like many of the queen's men—he was sly, yes, but not a criminal.

"You may regret that choice, Ser Justin," said the king quietly.

Justin Massey watched Stannis for a moment in obvious uncertainty, before appearing to reconcile something in his own mind.

"No, Your Grace," he replied confidently, his usual smile returning to his round face. Stannis nodded once, then stepped past Ser Justin. The replacement sword he had obtained was an unfamiliar but comforting weight at his side, slightly longer than Lightbringer and a touch heavier—a blade crafted for battle, not for display, the type of sword Stannis had long preferred, before he let himself be led astray.

Shireen was overjoyed to see him, crushing him in yet another hug the moment he set foot in her tent. She did not seem to have slept at all that night, but Stannis could not blame her—he too had tossed fretfully in bed until he finally gave up and simply sat in a chair to watch the small fires dance in the braziers. Her response to him telling her that he was leaving now for battle was predictable: her puffy, red eyes welled up once more with tears, but she merely smiled through her sadness and wished him luck. He allowed her to hold his hand even as she accompanied him outside, like a tiny, timid shadow.

The man who had informed Stannis of Melisandre's escape the previous day waited for them in the snow, shifting from foot to foot.

"Your Grace," said the man, "Your wife…" He did not finish the sentence, instead gesturing helplessly towards the small wooded area where Shireen had been taken the day before. Stannis cast a look down at his daughter, whose blue eyes were huge and fearful in her pale face, and set off without her—she did not need to see her mother again, much less return to the scene of her near-death experience.

He knew before he arrived what awaited him there in the trees. It was a feeling, an intuition nestled deep in his bones. As a result, there was no surprise for him when he finally came upon the small circle of men who stood awkwardly around the body of his wife, securing her against some unknown threat until their king could command them otherwise.

Stannis watched her figure swing from the branch for what felt like an age. He should have been saddened, upset, even remorseful—and yet he felt nothing. If anything, he was relieved. Selyse had believed in him as the Chosen One, but not much else—before Melisandre came along to preach her visions of Stannis as savior and king, Selyse scarcely deigned to give him the time of day. She wanted more from her life than being the near-barren wife of the second-born Baratheon son, and no matter how hard he had tried to become the man in Melisandre's visions, he never quite succeeded.

Selyse had put all her faith in the man Stannis was not born to be. There was only one fate for her, for attempting to burn his daughter and heir at the stake. No matter her intentions, it was an act and a betrayal punishable by death, and Stannis would not hesitate to sentence her as was necessary for her crime. By taking her own life, Selyse deprived him of the justice he would naturally seek for Shireen. Her suicide was the first thing she had ever done that made Stannis respect her—he had seen many men try to end their lives and fail, but she, a weak, feeble woman, had succeeded spectacularly.

Now she was free from everything—from her disappointing life, from him as a disappointing husband, from their disappointing daughter. In a way, Stannis was even grateful—now he was free as well. Sadly, it was most likely too late.

"Cut her down," he finally rasped. "Burn her body." The ground was too frozen to dig a grave, and he did not want to expend what little energy his men had left in order to bury a traitor. A funeral pyre would be honorable enough—Stannis was a hard man, but even he would not leave his wife's corpse to be ripped up by wild animals.

He did not stay to watch. There were more pressing matters to attend to, and it was almost time for the final march to Winterfell.

Walking halfway from Castle Black to Winterfell was a wretched proposition in the first place, but the winter snows made everything take twice as long with twice as much misery. Fortunately, there was one bright spot in the otherwise dismal journey—the miles of exhausting trudging gave Stannis Baratheon ample time to reflect on the events that had led him to this low, low point in his life. By the time he and his bedraggled army reached the open plain that stretched before Winterfell, he had run through the list of his many sins thrice.

Stannis paused just below the crest of the last gently sloping hill before the start of the flatland, his breath coming heavy in the cold air. Around him his men staggered to a halt, some groans floating past his ears as they bemoaned their aching feet and empty stomachs. One of his bannermen made the mistake of coming too near the king, who caught his eye and beckoned him closer.

"Send out a foraging party immediately." He gestured to the horizon. As he well knew, food was of paramount importance. No siege could be won without food, and his supplies were nonexistent after the midnight skirmishes during the last few days. "The siege begins at sunrise." But the man beside him was no longer looking at him, and Stannis frowned.

"There's not going to be a siege, Your Grace," said the man. Stannis half knew the reason even before he turned to see for himself the lines of Bolton cavalry riding for them at a steady, determined trot. So, Roose Bolton had decided to take the battle to him, then. For a moment, Stannis grudgingly admitted that Bolton had chosen well.

He looked away from the certain death that rode for him under flayed banners and down at the frozen ground. Silently he cursed the Red Woman and her thrice-damned fire god; he cursed the Boltons and the North; he cursed his own hubris. He drew his sword. There was no way out. He would meet his end on both feet.

His men drew their swords after him. It would not be enough to save them, but at least they would die honorably. And at least they had the high ground, for now. There was no chance they could hold it, not against a cavalry charge, but it was something.

He wished he could have apologized to Lo Jun. Maybe she would know that he died thinking of her, full of regrets.

"Your Grace," someone gasped in awe. Stannis looked away from the approaching riders.

From the forest that surrounded them emerged shapes—men on horses, armored as heavy cavalry. The few men in plate were followed by light cavalry already notching arrows to small recurved bows as they rode, their reins loose or gripped between bared teeth as the riders steered their mounts with their knees. These were not Seven Kingdoms men, but foreigners—their long black braids gave them away immediately, even if the unfamiliar armor did not. Stannis could hear their chilling war cries even at this distance. Two formations, outnumbered by the Boltons but closing fast, aiming to meet the enemy lines with a charge from both sides.

They flew the flaming stag's head.

Disbelief turned to fear as he recognized a small figure mounted on a dun mare at a flat out gallop amidst the rest of the Red Horde riders. With no helmet, it was easy to identify Lo Jun even in the watery half-light of the early evening. She bore down on the Boltons from the west, riding at the center of the cavalry line with the dying sun at her back.

Was she mad? What in seven hells did she think she was doing? She was no soldier; she would be killed!

Both Baratheon formations sped towards the Bolton cavalry. The men gave their horses all the lead they needed as they raced across the snow-crusted plains. Behind him, he could hear the murmurs of his men who had also spotted the new cavalry. Courage spread quickly, and Stannis could hear shouts of encouragement from the men behind him.

Horns blew, crisp and righteous.

Four hundred meters.

The Bolton men had seen the Baratheon riders. Some wheeled to face the new adversary, their previously-orderly ranks warping as the riders adjusted to confront the new threat. Confusion spread. Red-fletched arrows began to rain onto the Bolton formation as the charging light cavalry loosed their bows.

Three hundred fifty meters.

He watched as Lo Jun drew her sword, holding it above her head like a beacon. The front line of heavy cavalry lowered their lances at the Boltons, who scrambled for crossbows to reply but were unprepared for the new front. Time slowed.

One hundred.

Fifty.

Small round objects sailed through the air towards the Bolton cavalry from the hands of the charging Red Horde, trailing short, lit cords that burned merrily. When they landed amongst the enemy men, they exploded, spewing fragments of burning ceramic and sending a wave of panic through the horses and men. Chaos instantly broke out in the Bolton lines, where horses suddenly tripped on crippled legs and some men fell screaming from their mounts, clutching at their eyes. Thick black smoke filled the air.

Ten.

The two cavalries collided just as the first Bolton ranks reached his own line, and all hell broke loose.

His men were tired and sick. They were on foot, half frozen, and disheartened by the march and events since Castle Black. But they had to fight for their lives, and those who did not run did so with single-minded desperation. To their credit, the men around him closed ranks tightly and maintained discipline as much as possible. While predictably, others in the rearguard fled, more stayed, their spirits buoyed by the return of the Red Horde. Foreign mercenaries or no, they were divine saviors just then—a miracle that could only mean the gods had not forsaken them yet.

The battle raged. To the west, he could see Lo Jun's cavalry line bend and break, the riders milling in chaos. The Bolton men threatened to overrun them completely—Stannis watched helplessly as riders in blue swarmed his spymaster and the men around her. The stag's head banner they carried wavered and dipped, then fell.

He roared in fury, a sudden surge of energy granting him a strange strength, as if he were Robert in his prime. He hacked mercilessly through a Bolton man's neck and pushed the corpse off his blade with a boot. All around him, his bannermen flailed about with their swords and what few spears they carried, stabbing at the Bolton horsemen who stampeded through the Baratheon ranks with eager frenzy. Some succeeded in unhorsing the Bolton riders—the Boltons who fell were quickly gutted. Others simply brought down the horses themselves, slashing at legs or necks from as safe a distance as possible.

Stannis cast about him wildly. The plains were a liability—cavalry could maneuver and fight on such an open field, but this was a deathtrap for soldiers on foot. The nearby woods were a far better option—had he known Roose Bolton would send out his men, Stannis would have waited in the trees rather than march out without cover.

Summoning his voice, he shouted, "To the woods!" and began to retreat, followed by those men of his who heard his cry and now took it up, spreading the word amongst the rest of the king's army. There was no solution for the disorder—they ran however they could for the line of trees while cutting down any Boltons who tried to get in their way.

They never made it to the woods. There were always more Boltons between them and the tree line—some who had seen the king and wanted the glory of killing Stannis Baratheon themselves, and some who merely happened to be there by ill chance.

It was a slaughter. The man to his left died, then the man to his right, but still he fought on. He resolved that he would not be killed, not here, not now—not at the hands of the Boltons, not when Lo Jun was so close. He did not stop to consider she might have already been slain, bleeding out on the cold, hard ground as the battle raged around her. _She lives_ , he told himself sternly, _she lives, and you must too._

This was not a battle for victory. This was a battle for survival.

He could not draw enough air into his laboring lungs—his breath came in ragged gasps, like a dying fish pulled from the sea, or a stag run down by dogs. His muscles screamed, strained past the point of exhaustion. And yet for every man he cut down, another two sprang into view—he blocked and cut and parried and stabbed with mechanical efficiency, no longer thinking but moving instead out of a lifetime of pure instinct. It did not matter where his blows landed on those Bolton men who materialized before him—there was no elegance to his movements, no fine art of swordsmanship to astound the watcher. The only important thing was that they fell beneath the onslaught of his fury, whether they be killed or maimed or simply frightened away.

Pain seared his flesh, a burst of agony as a lucky cut sank deep into his right leg. Stannis jerked away with a hiss, too tired even to shout—he had just killed the offending swordsman when a blow from a shield glanced off the side of his head, leaving warm blood trickling from his temple in its wake. The king staggered, temporarily dazed—he lifted his arm without even realizing to block another swing, and almost fell when his injured leg gave out beneath him.

Horns blew once more, rising above the cacophony of battle and the sporadic explosions of YiTish thunderclap balls. These horns were unfamiliar, not the brass call of the Baratheon bannermen. Instead, miraculously, the Bolton men began to disengage messily—those still mounted wheeled their horses and regrouped to retreat, riding hard for Winterfell. From where he stood, Stannis could see as they cut a swath through his remaining men, bodies tumbling in the wake of their charge. Panting, he signaled his men to retreat as well. His lungs and wounds felt aflame and he almost laughed at the irony—the king blessed by the fire god, feeling as if he were burning.

His few remaining men struggled past him in their retreat. He watched them with unseeing eyes.

His army had been decimated, again.

"Your Grace." One of the men who had stayed with him throughout the battle spoke up uncertainly. "Shall we follow the rest of the men?"

"No," Stannis rasped. He planted his sword in the dirt and leaned heavily on the hilt, wincing as he took the weight off his injured leg. He would need yet another new sword if he continued to use this one as a cane. "We wait for the remaining cavalry."

 _We wait for Lo Jun_.

* * *

 _A/N: Lots of things happening here, but there was no good stopping point so I just kept going.  
_

 _patty. clark.792: Thank you so much! I'm glad to have piqued your interest!_

 _Guest: You're welcome, and thank YOU for reading!_

 _Cookie. Monster 67: No burnings! I'm glad you enjoyed reading Stannis' thoughts-my favorite activity is exploring a character's thought process (although I'm pretty sure that's patently obvious by now, haha). And drat, I knew I overlooked something; that was supposed to be two burning hearts (he's just making a mess), so I'll have to correct that eventually!_

 _El: Thanks so much! And yeah,_ _I hated that episode. Partly because I have a blatant crush on the Mannis, but also because it made no sense. Like... he's already had an impossible time having one kid, it's just stupid for him to kill her and leave himself with no heirs._


End file.
